What fresh hell is this?
I’ve trumpeted the sounds of my ancestors. More than once.
I’ve chased my tail.
I’ve flopped down on my side and showed you my soft belly floof without nipping at your hand.
I’ve chased the spring toys you keep pulling out of the cat nip drawer.
I’ve let you comb me. And still I cry.
Still, I cry.
This calls for extreme measures. I fly from the dining room table, to the top of the couch, slide across the coffee table and tumble headfirst into my stroller. An extra cute move if I do say so myself and definitely worth a mention on the gram.
It’s seriously hard to keep up with this cute gambit all afternoon.
Don’t these hoomans know it is three … one-two-three minutes to dinner time? But who’s counting? I’m a cat, I can’t count! It may actually be an hour for all I know.
Two minutes until I gorge myself on one third of a can of Fancy Feast seafood pate.
Maybe I will be rewarded handsomely if I mew like a sad, pathetic baby.
Time to bolt! I race to the food bowl, dip my left paw in the water to make sure my beans is clean when I see her.
S-L-O-W-L-Y making her way to the r-e-f-r-i-g-e-r-a-t-o-r.
Wait, is she looking at her phone!? I’m starving down here, putting my cutest moves to work, and she’s … looking at her phone!? Oh, the indignities of being a small house panther unable to use a can opener.
Then I hear it, it starts with the blissful sucking noise of the refrigerator door opening. Followed by the rattle of the metal can. The moist slurp as she peels back the airtight lid, and then … two purrfect clinks of the spoon. One hitting the side of the can and the other against my precious ceramic bowl.
Ooh baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on earth.
In mere seconds, I’ve devoured my paltry portion of pate. And with that, I race down the stairs into my basement lair.
Same time tomorrow, lady? If you need me, I’ll be lounging in front of the heating vent.
You can keep up with this tuxedo’s shenanigans on Instagram @bootusbeefcake
