Cats are assholes. This morning I was awakened with a paw swipe to my face at 5:15 am. Second day in a row that’s happened. So I shut the furry little terrorist out of the bedroom and slept for another hour and a half. Last weekend I was talking with my mom on the phone when I kept hearing odd noises from the bedroom. I went in to find that Ripley was devouring my foam roller.
I had been keeping the foam roller in our bedroom for months, standing up next to my nightstand. My quads are always tight and I try to roll them regularly. Not as regularly as I should, because Ripley likes to pounce on me when I do it. He had otherwise never paid any attention to the roller. Why he had suddenly decided it was a mortal enemy, I don’t know. By the time I found him, my poor roller had been reduced to a chewed mess, soaked with cat saliva.
Lately he’s also made a habit of sitting by the door that keeps him out of the rest of the house, meowing plaintively. He clearly wants his turf expanded. This tendency to guard the door almost every minute he’s awake has made our getting in and out a lot more complicated. He isn’t as easily fooled by our tossing toys to distract him, either. So when we’re trying to get out, I have to give him a treat or lure him with a toy and then outrun him to the door.
Getting in requires opening the door a tiny slit and picking him up when he wiggles through the gap. Which is fine unless I’m trying to bring anything in with me. We are reduced to executing a series of military style maneuvers in order to move freely around our own home. And don’t even get me started on trying to use the toilet or shower in peace. It almost gives me a sense of what it might be like to have a toddler. Almost. Reaffirms that decision not to have children.
You’re lucky he still lets you live there.