Last night I was awoken at 3:15a.m. by the bemoaning and ranting of Her Royal Majesty the Queen. Standing 13 inches tall and cloaked in silver fur, she rules with sharp tongue and declawed fist. She is most punitive when her food dish is empty or we’ve been away on a trip.
I think Her Highness was especially wrathful this time because not only had we left her for a week, but First Born Prince had inadvertently shut his bedroom door, thereby blocking her entrance to her favorite chamber. So, after her midnight hunting expedition and customary jaunt around the house looking for suitcases to defile, she sat in the hallway and started complaining at full decibel.
Long, guttural cry.
“Lulu! Lulu! It’s okay, we’re home.” If you piss on my suitcase, you are a dead woman.
More howling.
“Come here. Lulu! Sweet kitty.”
Short, mournful meows.
“It’s okay, Lulu. Come here.”
I made some kissing noises and rubbed my fingers together. This works for every cat I’ve ever met. The house was quiet as I listened for any signs of cloak and dagger activities. She found her way to my chest where she made some pies, gave herself a bath, and then, mercifully, went to sleep.
I am not sure if I was pardoned or not. The subjects are always the last to know.
No comments:
Post a Comment