The Food of Love…

One of the most difficult trials of being the family cat, it watching quietly as your humans make the same miscalculations in judgement, all the while conveniently ignoring the results of the last mishap. Part of it stems from the unwavering optimism that this will end better and in spite of the fact, one has failed to conduct oneself any differently than on previous occasions, which ironically, also did not end well. So much for living and learning.

As a feline, I adhere to a strict diet of healthy prescription cat food designed to keep my kidneys on tip-top condition. Rarely, I have been known to indulge in a tablespoon of tuna, or lick an abandoned dinner plate discarded carelessly upon the coffee table. I usually adhere to a non organic diet void of fiber in any form. This little detail means not only am I built for speed, but a love-making machine as well. I have never emitted a butt cheek squeak when making time with the ladies.

The bipeds of the domicile have yet to learn the importance of removing all vegetable matter form their diets. Invariably, during the winter months, Missus Chica will surprise the Mister with a home cooked meal after he returns from the wiles of the lipstick urban jungle of business travel. Nothing says I love you, like soup made from scratch. It appears to be lovely gesture, hot soup, simmering on the stove for hours. The aroma of crushed red pepper, fresh rosemary, and sautéed garlic. As romantic as it sounds, sausage and lentil soup isn’t a very good aphrodisiac. Seduction for the taste buds, can lead to self-propelling oneself from the bed.

Nothing says long term marriage like fleeing the sofa to pass silent-but-deadlies, unless it’s not bothering to leave the sofa at all.

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Going with the Flow

Since, daylight saving time came to end, I have been developing a new found respect for those living in the northern latitudes. I’ve been one to take sunlight for granted, a dangerous assumption in a household in which the corkscrew is automatically programed to function in concert with the setting sun. According to the weather bureau, the sun descends three minutes earlier than our previous home, but the perception is greatly altered by the neighboring mountains, extinguishing the warm rays, before I am ready to complete my afternoon bask, and driving Missus Chica prematurely from the hiking trails as she uses her cell phone display to navigate her way home.

The two legged occupants are adjusting to the restrictions of light and warmth. They aren’t as active as they have been in the past, but I suspect that will change once the novelty of television wears off for the Mister, and the Missus finishes slogging through War and Peace. It’s easier to set lofty goals, than to actually follow though with them, hence the muddy path to the front door flanked by three pallets of concrete pavers. Technically one of the occupants her learned her lesson, which explains why she can’t be bothered to give a shit as the other occupant whines about her being right about a certain procrastination disease.

Anywho, the air is crisper, the days are shorter, and there is adapting, even if it is of an irregular nature. Hopefully, impromptu walks through the neighborhood will develop into habits, once the last leaf has fallen. There’s a fine line between routine and obsession. A routine provides structure and gives you something to anticipate, unfortunately it is easily derailed by the slightest deviation. An obsession, makes you inflexible, and gives your family yet another reason to talk about you behind your back, as if they really need one.

Just ‘cuz