I used to do this feature as part of June Cleaver Nirvana’s Potluck.
But potluck season is over, and it meant I had no weekly outlet to complain about the cats.
Oh, I worked it in now again so it wouldn’t bounce around in my head and cause migraines. Curing a cat-story migraine is a pain in the…uh…head. It requires heavy doses of Excedrin crushed in bourbon and a few hours in a quiet room watching episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And enough of those “migraines” makes the family suspicious and they start shoving leaflets for chemical dependency programs in under the locked door.
So it’s best for all if I just make sure I share these stories as they occur.
So, let’s imagine my husband for a moment. Yes, the one who’s turning 50 in a couple of days. My husband, Himself, as he is known ’round these digital parts, is a wonderful, loving man. And he has been known to, with some regularity, bring me flowers. Why? Because they make me happy. Which means that there are fewer nights where I’ve locked myself up with cocktails and paranormal tv and more nights where I have cooked with actual ingredients.
A couple of weeks ago, I came home to a lovely bouquet of flowers. Which made me happy.
But I think, possibly, that Topaz is jealous.
Now, bear in mind that Topaz is MY cat, technically. I had her before Himself and I moved in together. But, it seems that she carries some resentment over the fact that Himself brings me flowers and brings her dried kibble.
After the flowers had been in the house a few days, we noticed some petals on the floor.
At first, we attributed this to the natural propensity of fresh flowers to, well, age.
Can you see that fuzzy shape in the background? That suspiciously cat-shaped shape in the background?
They always return to the scene of the crime.
Although I have no photographic evidence to share, we did actually catch her in the act of yanking petals off the flowers.
This is the view of said flowers from the floor where all the sad, decrepit, cat-yanked flowers lay like so many…like so many….oh, just insert a tragic metaphor about discarded items here. I can’t think of one.
Cause nothing says “I love you!” like flowers behind a protective barrier.