Why Do You Hate Me, Brutus?..........

Dear Brutus:

Why do you hate me? I have wracked my brain, and I cannot come up with a single reason that you might harbor hatred toward me.

First of all, I KNOW your name isn't really Brutus. It's Olive, but you can't hold that against me. Sweet Girl named you. Actually she named you Olivia, until we took you to the vet for the first time. But Hubby has called you Brutus almost since the day we got you, and when Missy came along she became Little Brutus, and it's just easier to go along with him than call the two of you by four names.

I feed you regularly. And I'm talking R-E-G-U-L-A-R-L-Y. You are very vocal with your demands for food, and I give in to you rather than listen to you. If you were a child I would give you a toy and put you in front of a DVD or something, but you aren't that easily distracted. [Give me a break, folks, I'm only kidding.] You even have your own special place to eat, so that the dog doesn't get into your food.

It's not like you don't have a constant supply of dry food available. Why can't you be like your sort-of sister and be happy with dry food? She never utters a sound, she just sits patiently beside an empty food dish and waits for someone to notice. Are you happy with that? Oh no. You have to have WET cat food, served to you on a paper plate. I even buy you different types and flavors each and every week so you don't become bored with the same old thing. And don't get me started on how you've started sitting beside me while Hubby and I eat, begging for table scraps. Curse Gus for teaching you THAT little trick.

I allow you to sleep on our bed, in spite of the fact that you take up waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more than your share of space. You have your very own wall heater in the hallway, and we don't even kick you out of the way when we need to pass. When you climb up behind my head when I'm in my recliner, I don't even knock you off when your ponderous weight makes my chair go back too far.

I get up to let you out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in. And out. And back in.

And this is the thanks I get for your luxurious lifestyle.

This is what I come home to after a long week at school, consisting of two days of testing, one day of evaluation by an outside committee that didn't give us glowing remarks, one day of regressive behavior by students who should be desperate to get their courses finished, not clamoring for drama, and one all-day field trip. On top of that, the weather has turned ugly, cold, and wet, and God did NOT put me in the South to be this cold. And wet. Ugly I can stand.

I realize this may be a delayed reaction to our having you declawed as an adult several years ago. But really, we had just bought new leather furniture, and if you had done this to brand-new furniture, I'm afraid you might have gone to that great litter box in the sky.

While we're on the subject of claws, exactly how long does it take you to do this much damage to a roll of toilet tissue, since all you have to work with are your TEETH? Is this to show us how bored you are while we are gone? Why don't you play with Gus? He's not all that bad. You outweigh him by at least five pounds, and I believe you could hold your own with him.

The tissue thing, though, is getting old. I could do the smart thing like Hubby does in HIS bathroom, and just put the tissue up where you can't reach it. Because Lord knows you can't haul your gargantuan rear-end up on the countertop. Unless there's food up there, of course.

I don't want to give in to a cat, though. I want to win. And I don't care how many rolls of toilet tissue I have to go through to prove that point to you.

Love,

Bragger
Your OWNER

The one who feeds you.

Picking up Bad Habits......

One of our cats has begun to pick up bad habits from Gus, our Pomeranian.

Gus is permitted to have bad habits, because he makes up for them in oh so many ways. He's almost like a person. Except he has more personality than many people I know.

Not so the cat.


He's not very modest. He appears to be covering his face in shame, while he displays the OTHER end of his body for all the world to see.

His name is Olive, because when we took him to the vet for the first time, they told us his name COULDN'T be Olivia.

But Hubby calls him Brutus, as he has called most of the cats we have had, except for the one named Smokey that he called Smog and the one named Wheeler that he called Wheels.

More specifically, he's Big Brutus.

Because he calls Missy Little Brutus.



As you can see in this picture, there is no plate of cat food on the table as of yet. (PLEASE don't tell my mother that's where we feed the cat. It's the only way to keep Gus out of his food. I always scrub it thoroughly before we sit down to eat. And you can't prove I don't.) That would explain the completely pissed-off look on this cat's face. He wants his food immediately, if not sooner.

And he's very vocal about it.


This picture is when he was still very little and very cute. Before he ballooned to weigh more than Gus. He was probably still Olivia then too.

This one is after he had to have not one but BOTH hips replaced. He looks a little embarrassed at being caught without his britches.

Having animals that DON'T cost us a fortune is apparently not in the tea leaves.

Lately, however, Big Brutus has developed an annoying habit that surpasses all of his other annoying habits.

He has begun to beg for food while we are eating.

Isn't that what a dog is supposed to do?

He starts off with a very subtle approach. He comes to my end of the table and sits there looking up at me. Invariably I cannot ignore the stare any longer, and I make the mistake of making eye contact with him.

"MEOW!" he says. Loudly.

I ignore him, because he eats about ten times a day as it is, and he doesn't have to supplement his pork-laden diet with people food. Especially when the people is me.

When I don't give him a bite of food, he comes closer, eventually standing up on his hind legs and patting my arm gently with his front paw.

"Hello? Did you forget I was down here?" he says.

Because he is so persistent and so loud and I'm a sucker, eventually I give him a tiny bite of whatever we are having.

He sniffs it at great length, debating as to whether or not he really wants to take it.

Sometimes he eventually DOES take it, and shakes his head (why do cats do that with their food? It's already dead!), more often than not dropping the morsel of food on the floor, where Gus snaps it up before Brutus can blink.

I don't know where he got this abominable habit of begging for food, but it is annoying. When we are having a meal like cornbread and soup, he refuses to believe there is nothing suitable for him on the table. He turns up his nose at a LOT of things we have for dinner, but he continues to beg anyway.

I fully expect to come home one day and find him smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer.

Habla Espanol?...........

We stopped at Wally-World tonight on the way home to pick up a few things. Cat food mainly, because Big Brutus questions us unmercifully anytime we come home from the store.

Big Brutus: Meow?

Meow?

Meeeeeeeeeoooooooooowwwwwwwww!!!!!!


We proceeded to the self check-out, in spite of the fact that the machine talks way too loudly, and we usually have something go wrong with the scanner, and everyone in three counties knows it. I don't know why such a seemingly simple machine should stump us so often, but it does. Plus we were buying beer, which automatically meant the self check-out checker person would have to come over and verify that we were over the legal age to buy alcohol.

For some reason that remains unclear to me, hubby pressed the button for Espanol instead of English. So the loud mechanical female voice informed everyone in three counties IN SPANISH that we didn't know what we were doing.

The pictures would have helped. Except I was laughing too hysterically to see them.