Monday, January 23, 2006

Bri was happier when shmoo cooked.

I have a new battle. Each night is a skirmish. Every night, when I cook, the cat follows me into the kitchen, harasses me while I cook, and then as I get ready to plate it up and for us to eat, he's lying on the table. My constant weapons of squirt bottles sometimes feel useless. They work for running him off, but he keeps coming back. He gets chased off the table, then he pesters shmoo a while and tries to steal off of his plate. Then he gets sprayed. Then he comes over to me and pops his head up and sniffs at my plate and gets sprayed. And then he jumps up on the other side of the table and I yell at him and cuss him and spray him so much he's soaking, and then he gets down. Repeat, Ad Nauseum.

Tonight shmoo said, "He was happier when I cooked." It's true. The cat wasn't tormented with smells of home-cooked goodness. He just sniffed at the Subway Veggie Maxes and Frozen Pizzas and moved on. Sometimes he would beg a bit and shmoo would throw him a little piece of whatever it was, but then he would lose interest. This is no longer the case.

I cannot decide whether to feel flattered or irritated that the cat loves my cooking so much.

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