My little friend Sydney gets a little too needy sometimes. Much like a toddler, she has to go to bed at a certain time, and if I don’t put her to bed (that is, sit where she can crawl in my lap and go to sleep), she has a tantrum.
I think I like the tantrums better than what she did the other night after I went into the living room to read. Cats aren’t allowed in there, but she sneaked in, knelt at my feet, and rubbed her head on my toes. Ugh. An obsequious cat is unnatural.
Hobbes, Sydney, and mouse
Sydney and Hobbes sort of have an agreement: Sydney catches ’em, Hobbes eats ’em. Looks here like Sydney’s rethinking that agreement, or at least is making sure Hobbes knows just which of them is the Mighty Hunter.
I much prefer for Hobbes to do the eating; that cat has a cast-iron stomach. Sydney doesn’t — bird, rat hindquarters, whatever gets upchucked, and she has no shame about depositing it on my office floor. You cannot believe how disgusting it is to clean up bloody cat barf that’s still warm.