Because we have no human children, and a lot of free time on the weekends, my husband and I have recently been allowing Tigger to explore the back deck from the safety of a cat harness and an expandable leash.
Being that it is the summertime, and we do live in the South, and we are caring and responsible (or horribly mean and abusive, it all depends on how you look at it) kitty parents, tonight we forced all the cats to endure The Application Of A Flea Control Substance.
That means that now, wherever I turn, I am faced with the highly indignant, self-righteous, and martyred (not to mention EXTREMELY grumpy) stare of animals that have been denied the privilege of having creepy crawly critters hatching in their fur all summer long. Plus the frustration stemming from the fact that I have now messed up the pristine smoothness of their coat, which they just spent the last 87 hours licking into perfection. Mixed in with the calculating stare that tells me that they are trying to decide whether or not I’m worth the effort of reaching out and whacking as I pass them by.
Life’s hard when you’re a cat.
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