Because this is the internet, I’m never going to stop showing you pictures of my pets. Especially Alexander Hamilton because my heart is still healing and he’s just the fuzziest bandage ever. But there’s one adorable thing he does that I haven’t managed to capture and probably never will: because when he does it, my hands are busy.
Not that thing; I caught that. Although, if anyone’s looking for cheap entertainment for cats and humans alike, I cannot recommend that bird feeder enough. We call it the Bird Theatre (where birds get front row tickets to Hamilton every day!) and it’s great for birds, chipmunks, you name it. But no, that is not The Thing.
When he wants to be picked up, Ham lifts up on his back legs and stretches his front paws up in the air. If he’s close enough and you hesitate, he will rest those front paws on your hip and look up at you with his big gorgeous eyes while he waits for you to pick him up for hugs and cuddles.
I know, right? You see why I can’t run and get a camera? Or even pull my phone out of my pocket? When Alexander Hamilton asks to be picked up, you pick him up and you cuddle him, dammit!
At least, that’s been the rule.
Every morning at some ungodly hour chosen based on the amount of time before the alarms were actually set to go off, Brindle Dog comes and tells me it’s time for her to go out. I roll over and convey the message to Husband, who gets up and takes the dogs downstairs; he lets them out and preps their breakfast while they’re doing their thing in the back yard. This gives me a few precious minutes (90 or so? Give or take) to read, something I don’t do enough considering… you know… before I get up, do some basic hygiene and throw on clothes I would never wear in public. It is now foodie –shake-your-booty time, which is the only way I’ve found of conveying to the Stupid Cat that food is being served. Because she is stupid, and will not look for food in her bowl but follow me around later whining about how hungry she is.
It’s important that the animals have a routine; the routine demonstrates that we are in charge of this shit, that we know what we’re doing, and that we can be trusted to handle it. The routine keeps everyone safe and happy.
Husband fucked with the routine.
HIM: I fed the cats while I was downstairs.
ME: … Why?
HIM: Because I was letting the dogs out and Alexander Hamilton correctly asked for Up.
ME: You are so his bitch.
HIM: Hey, if Alexander Hamilton asks you to pick him up, you pick him up and you cuddle him!
ME: Wait… did you feed the cats before the dogs?
HIM: … Yes?
ME: God dammit.
HIM: He was cuddling!
ME: YOU’RE HIS BITCH!
HIM: I just—
ME: Do you even know why we feed the dogs before the cats?
HIM: … No?
ME: Because it’s been longer since the dogs ate.
HIM: Not anymore
I’m not really mad about the damage to their routine. I can repair their routine—it’ll take a few weeks, because once it’s been done another way they think they can always get it that way, but I can do it. No, what I’m mad about is that, in one morning, he’s taught the adorable and fluffy puppycat that he can get whatever he wants by asking to be picked up.
Of course that was true. But now he knows it.