We have two cats, and they are lazy. If they want to leave the kitchen, they wait for me to open the baby gate instead of jumping over it as they could do so very easily.
The baby gate is there to keep our recovered stray dog from bolting out the front door whenever it is opened. She likes to return to her roots every now and again until she gets caught by somebody who calls us with remarks about how the poor thing misses us so, and that we should be more responsible pet owners.
The cats? They sit at the gate glaring at me, and when I open it, they walk past me with looks of “about time, asshole.”
Once out, they decide that they’re no longer lazy. They race into the living room and sink their claws into the sofa, and continue to scratch despite my protests from the kitchen.
I open the baby gate while holding my morning coffee and run out after them. I put my mug down on the coffee table and try to shoo them away — all while thinking, Why on earth do we have cats?
I guess cats do keep us from becoming too routine, too mundane. That’s exactly what they are doing right now … because … they have just … knocked over my coffee right onto the notebook in which I write all these stories about my family, and about my pets, about my chaotic life. And now about how to dry a soggy notebook and survive with two too many cats and two too many dogs.
I have yet to figure that out.
