A certain spoiled kitty simply does not understand that I would like to type on the computer before I give her my complete, undivided attention. She's rotten like that.
We were getting low on cat food, so I stopped to get some on my way home from work. I couldn't remember if we were getting her the "hairball control" formula or the "indoor cat" formula, so I called The Hater, who insisted it was the latter. She really doesn't care so much as it's "chicken" flavor and the same brand. She gets upset if we change brands around on her. Like her mother, she's a creature of habit.
Twice this week I had permission from The Hater to take his car to work instead of my truck. I had some business meetings to attend in the city, and I knew it would be easier to maneuver the car into those little, perpendicular spaces as opposed to Harrison. And twice this week I remembered to take the car instead of the truck -- after I was already past the first red light outside of our apartment complex, poking along inside of Harrison. It was just far enough to know it was too far to turn back and swap Harrison for Esmerelda.
And twice The Hater sent me a text message along the same lines: Why did you not take the car? As if there was a more logical answer than: Because I forgot...
Zoloft has fallen asleep between my feet, curled into a furry ball and content to have shared attention, at least for now.
Does it make us bad parents if we didn't check to see if she had tainted food when that scare was in the news a couple of weeks ago? The Hater said he did look, but I hadn't even intended to peek. I figured that the Heinz-57 kitty would be tough enough to handle any boogers in her food.
Sister called last night with birthday wishes and also reported that her friend's TWO elderly dogs both died due to the tainted food. One apparently just died. The other one was already in kidney failure and is getting so bad they think they'll have to put him down, too. Isn't that just awful? I couldn't imagine losing both babies so closely together.
Speaking of birthdays and doghouses, The Hater forgot to give me birthday wishes on my birthday. We talked about it the night before, but it was afternoon of B-day before he sent me a text message. (Incidentally, this one was after the first text message, telling me I was in the doghouse because I forgot to take the car to work...) He bailed himself out pretty easily; we went to a fantastic Indian restaurant for supper.
And he has given me a house for my birthday! I'll probably get him house, too. You can bet our big, fancy 4th Anniversary celebration will revolve around house, as will Arbor Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas... at least for the next consecutive twenty-nine years.
Zoloft will be around for at least that long, but she'll probably grow more demanding.