When I was in my twenties, young, brash sapling that I was, I secretly snubbed cat owners. Girls I knew would go on and on about cats rejecting their medicine, and how their cat was the craziest cat in the world. Deep down I worried that it was an admission of the reality of the 'biological clock'. Moreover, how could all their cats be the world's craziest? (Being a largely female contingent they lacked the imperative to find who really was number 1.)
Now that I am a cat owner and a ripened 30 years of age, I've come realize, hypocritically, that I have the craziest cat (Fig 1) in the world. If not the craziest, he is at least the greatest slob of the feline species. May I suggest this litany provides some evidence of my claim:
1. He sleeps on his back hind legs splayed; it's obscene (Fig 2).
2. He ate a controlling interest in a plastic bag.
3. He eats pasta.
4. He drinks from the toilet.
5. He once drank part of an espresso.
6. He pushed over a pint glass.
7. He pushed over a pile of magazines.
8. He pushed over a couch.
9. To get into my bedroom to sleep on my pillow, he broke down a French door.
Figure 1: The Bunk Sitting
Figure 2: The Bunk Sleeping