I woke up last night to the sound of metal rakes being scraped together.
Peering over through the dark, I could see a kitten’s silhouette in the liter box which was inside my bedroom’s walk-in closet. Penny was noisily digging up liter and scraping against the bottom of the box. I don’t know if he was building a liter castle, looking for long lost treasure or just re-arranging old feces for the heck of it. He sure wasn’t burying a fresh load. No, this seemed more like heavy construction work to me. Heavy and LOUD construction work.
It was 3 am. I lost most temper.
“GIVE IT A REST PENNY!”
Somehow, he knew exactly what I was yelling about. He stopped what he was doing immediately and then quietly walked over to my bed. He meowed once, which translated to me as “oops” or “sorry,” and scurried off.
Accepting this apology, I thought my troubles were over. I went back to sleep. But Penny had other plans. Kitten plans. The kind of plans that interfere with a man’s plan to sleep.
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Because of cats that is. And cats have nine lives. That’s about as many times as I was disturbed from my sleep.
Foolish kitten. Frivolous feline. Wait till morning. I’ll get you.
The next morning, before feeding Penny, I made some extra milky instant oatmeal. I sat Penny down on the table in front of me and fed myself slowly. I made sure Penny got a good look at every spoonful. I’ve never seen kitten eyes get so big.
PETA would have a cow.
The Egyptians would have been mortified.
And that, my friend, is why revenge tastes like peaches and cream.