Apologies, but the big moggie is occupied defending his territory—all fluff and bravado—from his younger nemesis. I’ll be writing this post.
He has portrayed me as not having too much between the ears and a pushover. The reality is:
I’m challenged. Being whacked, stood on and exposed to unpleasantries every morning (having Smudges’s backside thrust in my face with an upright tail) is intolerable—all for his early breakfast and territory patrol. After 15 minutes, he is back on the bed making himself comfortable.
That cat would make an excellent torturer/interrogator. Constantly, he headbutts my knees and his claws are lethal, especially when he is playing or sprawled out on his side. He lacks etiquette skills when it concerns humans.
In the beginning, if he behaved like a delinquent, he was banished to the toilet or marched outside, but Smudge didn’t mind being confined and caught up on some sleep, or was happy to romp and explore outside.
Now, if he does something unthinkable, I’ll raise my voice chastising him and he’ll slink off, banishing himself to the spare room until his behaviour has improved… but we still have quality time.
Our routine of hide and seek chasey sometimes extends into the backyard. While being pursued, Smudge’s face is exuberant with glee. His fuzzy, salami-shaped body takes off like a bullet down the steps, across the pavers and through the damp soil, until he scurries up a wide tree trunk.
The fork of the trunk is two metres high. If Smudge doesn’t get a sufficient run-up, he’s left vertically attached before a frantic scramble, releasing and sinking his claws again into peeling bark. Claw marks are etched into the trunk as he ungracefully slides down, before turning his head and plopping onto the ground. As he races past, Smudge’s head is lowered. He has retreated inside.
I follow, only to find a trail of muddy paw prints stomped throughout the house and imprinted on my light-blue doona. Perhaps I should have chosen a dog instead.