Roadkill*/Jupiter/Pookie Bear

I'm not sure if she's brilliant - or a moron.

The cat is getting big.
She thinks she's still little - but she's NOT.

This is evident by the fact that her fat ass hangs off the window ledge behind me. It is also evident by the fact that she thinks I'm her personal lounge chair and that it's somehow my responsibility to keep her fat ass up on me when she falls asleep, moves, and proceeds to fall off of me.

You're on your own there, nutjob...

To further build on my empirical evidence - she hasn't been able to fit in my shirt for two months now. Not that she doesn't try, but it should be apparent to her that this is an impossibility when I pick her fat ass up and have to practically drape her over my shoulder.

She's not a cat, she's a moose.

She was picked up and held like a baby all the time as a kitten. She never fusses when you carry her around like that. I thought she'd hate it after awhile, but come to find out, she's a lazy slug and would rather be carted around by the human servants.

I can no longer sit down and have her lay on her back in my lap looking up at me when I do anything now - she's too long. When she tries to stretch out, she will fall off. And while that's funny, because she hasn't quite figured out that it's by her own doing - it does make me make a mental check in the moron column.

When she lays across my lap when I type, her legs are over one side of my chair and her head rests on the other arm of the chair - and she does have the nerve to look offended when her head slides off and winds up in between the arm of the chair and the chair's back.

I look at her like she's on the slow side.
She looks at me like, "HOW COULD YOU LET THAT HAPPEN?!"

She can catch practically anything in midair. Throw up two feathers that are half eaten and viciously ripped out of any number of her toys and she will catch them both before they hit the ground.

She's a ceremonious bug eater.
She likes to torture her food first.
She's a sadistic bastard.

She knows exactly what's expected of her when you go to give her people food. She sits. She's not very happy about it because she'd much rather stick her face in whatever food you've got and cut out the middle part - but she knows.

She knows that she'll get the look.

Yes, I will stare at the cat like she must have fallen down and hit her head or something to think it's going to go any other way.

She immediately sits down and waits while looking up at you with her whole, "I'm doing what you freakin' want me to do - pass me the ham already" look. This look is usually followed by, "if I was bigger, I'd eat you instead and then raid the fridge" look.

Yes, I enjoy assigning thoughts to animals... I may need a new hobby...

My newest thing is to teach her, "Bring it back!"
Why?
Because she fetches.

If you throw one of her squishy ball things across the room, she will take off after it like she's a bullet out of a .357 and bring it back. If she catches up to it while it's still in the air then she will jump up however high she has to, grab it with both paws and smash it to the ground to ensure that it's dead.

Don't start this game unless you have time enough to stand there for 35-50 rounds of this.

It's the equivalent of taking a two year old and tossing them into the air and them saying, "Do it again!" - you know how that game never ends until you think you're going to have an aneurysm.

After awhile, she'll bring it back - but she'll drop it about a foot away from you and then run up to you, minus the ball and stare at you like, "Well? I'm waiting. Throw the stupid thing again."

This means that you have to get up and get it.

I'm uncertain if this makes her a moron or brilliant. She's making me get up and work too now. I'm unclear as to if she's now trying to train me.

So, this has resulted in a race to see which one of us is lazier.
Welcome to the birth of the "Bring it back!" command.

I assure you that I'm lazier than she is.
I will win.

Or maybe she is just a moron. This is also a cat that likes to stick her head in Grant's shoe while hugging another one of his shoes and going to sleep.

She has a shoe fetish.
It's a little unnerving.

When he came home from his trip to Maryland he had two pairs of shoes lined up in the living room and she lost all sense of reality. She went insane. It was too over-whelming for her. She couldn't decide which shoe to stick her head in and which other shoe to hug to sleep.

It was like giving an A.D.D. child a TV remote and 1100 channels and saying, "pick one" after withholding their medication for two days.

She doesn't go after my shoes.

She must understand that they might as well have police tape around them and that she will end up living in the shed if she damages my shoes.

Animals instinctively must know when their way of life is in jeopardy.

Of course, I say that and then have to admit the following:

She's discovered the kitchen sink.
twitches

And there is nothing in her mind that says to her, "This is going to get my ass beaten..."

She actually has the nerve to look all proud of herself. It's like, "LOOK! NONO, LOOK! SEE WHAT I CAN DO NOW?! SEE WHAT I'VE DISCOVERED?! HEY, DID YOU KNOW THIS WAS HERE THE WHOLE TIME?! IT'S INCREDIBLE! THIS MAY BE THE COOLEST THING - EVER!"

wtf...

I walked into the kitchen this morning to find her sitting in one side of the double sink. Sitting IN it. Not walking around it. Not standing on the counters staring at it. SITTING IN IT.

I said the same thing to her that I do to my kids when they do something stupid in front of me, "I'M... RIGHT HERE!"

Good God.

"Get...the fuck... out of... the sink..."
blank look
"Get.... OUT... of the fucking SINK!"
moving closer because her dumbass isn't moving...
"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! GET OUT OF THE FUCKING SINK!"

I swear to God, she crouched down and gave me this, "Oh my GOD. I will SO NOT get out of the fucking sink! It's MINE. I found it fair and square and I'm not giving it up!"

I did the only thing I could think of without beating her ass.
I turned on the water and sprayed her with the sink hose.

Yes, I will flood my entire kitchen before I'll let her live in my sink.

I have zero issue with that.
I hate that room anyway.

This is the part in the story where we discover that she's really not all that moved by water.

Oh, sure. She jumped out of the sink - AND THEN SAT ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT OF ME WHILE I DOUSED HER.

All that leads to is her looking down at her fur and going, "huh... well, that's new..."

Again, brilliant for devaluing the effects of water - or moron for not getting that she's a cat and isn't suppose to like water.

This is where we also discover the true value of canned air. Point any bottle of canned air at the ceiling and hit the nozzle and she will run from a room like she's on fire.

I figure one or two more times of doing that when she even looks up at the sink and that little issue is taken care of.

She's been to the vet three times now and has all her necessary shots, been tested for leukemia and kitty HIV. She's clear for everything.

As for the cat carrier, it was probably a really good idea to take her on a road trip when she was only 8 weeks old or so because if you put it on the floor - she just walks right into it and lays down.

like Cleopatra sitting on her throne waiting for her loyal subjects to carry her off somewhere...

All in all, I still like her and she amuses me.