Sorry for my blogging delinquency, the hub and I just returned from a trip to Chicago, and as you may or may not be aware, Chicago does not have the internet. It’s a quaint little place, but a tad behind the times. More to come on our time there, we had such a great time, and so much fun with everyone we saw. I will also be posting a review of Maggie’s art show, which was, in fact, amazing.
However, the topic of today’s post is something that I need to get off my chest. I have failed as a pet mother. Upon returning to my little apartment, I found my cat had gone astray, clearly betraying his puritanical upbringing. I can’t help but wonder where I went wrong. How could I have missed the warning signs?
In retrospect, I should have realized something was up when my cat started being extra affectionate right before I left. In fact, we crossed a new threshold when I woke up to find him sleeping on my head. (In a nice way, though, not like Huple’s face-smothering cat in Catch-22) How sweet, I thought in my naievete. I even made Pat get the camera to document this step in our relationship. Oh, he knew what he was doing, all right. Here I am, eating up his supposedly innocent attention.
Here he is, plotting out his week of revelry. If you look closely, you can see it in the eyes.
He denies any guilt, even though I returned to find him like this:
I can’t help but wonder what I could have done differently. Perhaps if I had only payed more attention to him during his impressionable younger years. Maybe it was the going away to college and leaving him with my parents for five years that did it. Of course, it might just be that the damage done before I rescued him was just too much to overcome.
The worst part is, I’m not even really angry, just disappointed.