We’ve been gone one day. One.
That is exactly how long it took Taco to get to what I THOUGHT was an unreachable place (about head-high on a wire baker’s rack), grab a bag of treats (that I JUST bought yesterday), drag them upstairs ONTO our bed, shred the package, eat all the treats, and puke twice. On the bed.
Thank you to my mother for appreciating my worry that the cats would make trouble while we were gone and investigating even though there was no immediate sign of trouble. Mommy instinct is apparently live and well in our genes. And thank you for cleaning the puke off the comforter, even though I know you’re used to it with your own boys at home.
I mean, really? Taco, C’MON, MAN!
Taco is a smart little f-er. He was being whiny and annoying, so I decided to give him treats to shut his loud mouth up.
First of all, he grabbed the treats with his paws and didn’t let go until he hit the ground so he was sure he’d have it. The time he missed, he whacked it under the wire rack in the kitchen. It’s just wide and low enough that he can’t fit his fat paw all the way to the back where the treat landed. So I gave him another, and put the bag away. I walked away for a sec, and came back to see him FRANTICALLY trying to figure out a way to get to it.
He looked at me, meowed the HOARSEST meow I’ve ever heard, as if he were a starving child in Africa and that was the only morsel of food he was ever going to have again and OMG what am I going to do…and his tail was straight up and absolutely QUIVERING.
Then he went back to frantically trying to get to it while I fell on the ground laughing at him.
Oh, these cats.