People like to brag about their pet’s personality. Mine’s no bragging matter.
My cat, Cammie, has the personality of a mentally-handicapped elderly woman with Alzheimer’s disease.
I think she forgot where her litter box is. Luckily, I dodged her “gift” that was left by the door.
Sitting just out of reach, she stares dumbly at my outstretched hand. I guess she isn’t sure who I am anymore.
I say she has Alzheimer’s, but I think she’s just pretending. Sometimes, she likes to leave droppings right next to her litter box. Then she sits and watches me scoop it up.
She just wants to keep me in my place.
Cammie is a very demanding cat, but then again, aren’t they all?
She knows how to get what she wants. She meows at the door until I open it. She paws at her food bowl until I refill it, even if it’s half-full of Meow Mix (I guess she views it as half-empty).
She likes to mess with me.
One thing she likes to do is have me open the door for her (I swear, I feel like a greeter at Wal-Mart).
She’ll dash out and prance around the house for 10 seconds. I barely have time to sit down before she’s already scratching at the back door.
When Cammie feels like showing affection, she slowly saunters over to my chair and stares at me, as if she was saying:
“Yes, you may now pet me.”
Of course, she sits where I have to lean halfway out of my chair to brush her.
I reach over to her. “Wait! Not on my head, not on my belly… scratch my ass!”
I begin to pet her. “Hey now, don’t get too rough. There you go, get all you want. Okay, I‘m done.”
At that point, she freaks out and moves out of reach again. She then continues to stare at me as if I was an idiot.
She makes me feel like a child with her cold, condescending glare. What does she want from me? What could it possibly be now? Food: check. Water: check.
Oh, here she comes again.
“Not on my head, not- yeah, there you go… that’s the spot, rub my rear. You know what I like.”
I know she’s just using me; I feel like I’m only made to serve her.
Sometimes, I have to wonder who the pet really is.
