The tiny furry facists I live with
Got home from a wonderful vacation in Vermont. We opened the door and. . . the cats were just sitting there. After a week of being alone, the house was relatively neat, they were quiet as stones and just looked at us as we blustered around suitcases falling off the handcart, dog a-barking and overtired toddler a-crying.
This never happens. Usually there is two inches of cat fur on the floor, a crusty hairball in the entrance and then one of them streaks out the door and down the hall like the place is on fire and the other one berates us with yowling.
For the first time, our neighbor, Josh, took care of them. He lives down the hall, loves animals but isn't allowed to have any (he's 16) and is clearly a good kid with a good work ethic.
He has also stolen our cats' love.
After we put the W to bed and started unpacking, they started circling the bedroom, mewling and whining in this way I've never heard before. We're pretty sure it translates roughly to this:
"You brought back the foul spotted beast, you brought back the midget, you haven't even brought out the catnip toys, you guys SUCK, we want the other guy, we want Josh! We want Josh! WE WANT JOSH!"
Sigh.