Catastrophe

When I woke up this morning, I asked Jim what I should blog about today. His answer, "Why don't you blog about these dumbass cats." So, I give you, Catastrophe: Dumbass Cats Edition. 

Jim and I have always had cats. Our old man, Chaz, died in December of 2016, at the ripe old age of 19. His life companion, Josie, followed him, less than a year later, in November of 2017. This left Roonce all by himself.

We got Roonce as a kitten in July of 2015. The two older cats never really let him into their inner circle, so he's always been alone, so to speak. After Chaz and Josie died, I convinced Jim that Roonce needed a friend. So, off to the Clark County Humane Society we went. We found Carlos. He was so fuzzy, so orange, and so damn cute. We brought him home without a second thought. 

We haven't slept since. 

You see, Carlos is an instigator. A trouble maker. A bad influence. 

Every morning I find couch pillows on the floor, the tablecloth askew, oranges knocked out of the bowl and rolled all over the table and onto the tile, chewed up bread, q-tips dragged out of the trash, chewed up, and left on the carpet. Carlos crunches dog food at all hours, even when he has food in his bowl. A wood bowl because he has broken ceramic dishes, stone dishes, and plastic dishes alike. When I found the wood bowl at Target, I said, under my breath, "Let's see you try to break this one, asshole." 

"What the hell was that?" has become a frequent question at 2am. Usually, it is the cat tree hitting the wall. Or one of the feisty felines knocking the other to the floor from the top of it. 

The sound of a herd of elephants would be nothing compared to these two running around the house when all else is quiet. 

Get another cat, she said. Roonce needs a friend, she said.

It's nothing that a little more coffee can't fix.