Tag Archives: biting the hand that feeds you

Pointing fingers

I’d like to point out that I am at home with the kittens all day. I rub their bellies. I share my lunch. I hold them in my lap and let them watch the typey light box thing. Oh, and I – only I – scoop their litter boxes.

That said, The Boy was in the kitchen tonight making a grilled cheese sandwich. He’d gotten out the sliced Swiss cheese and put it on the bread. The crinkle of the Swiss cheese package brought a brown kitten running into the room. I, me, The Girl, got the shredded cheese out of the refrigerator.

I told Obi that I would give him some cheese. After all, I said, I was his favorite.

Obi yowled. Making eye contact with me, he raised a paw and pointed to The Boy. I kid you not.  That little brat actually contradicted me and said that The Boy was his favorite.

He got the cheese anyway.

The Boy, trying to mend bridges, told me I was most definitely Obi’s favorite girl in the whole house.

What. Ev.

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