Am I the only one in the house who can tell what Jack wants? I mean seriously? He’s not even my cat. And I barely even like him. But he comes to me and meows until it drives my nuts and I go let him out, or let him in, or feed him or get him a drink. He gets stressed out and doesn’t walk through the house; he gallops, taking corners like he’s at the race track, skidding into the wall. He sees me coming toward him and jumps straight up in the air and does a U-turn and heads the other direction. He actually turns 180 degrees in the air two feet off the ground.
He’s Mikelle’s cat. But hubby has adopted him. He sleeps in hubby’s room. Hubby scratches him. Hubby let’s him lie in his window. Hubby let’s him drink out of his bathtub [I know you thought I was going to say toilet . . .]
Stephen was here the other night with some friends watching UFC and the cat was meowing. I yelled upstairs. “Let the cat out. He wants out. Someone go open the stupid door.” [I didn’t really say stupid.]
No one let him out.
I walked upstairs and said, “The cat wants out, can’t you tell?” Stephen said, “Sheesh! She thinks she’s the cat whisperer or something!” I opened the front door and the cat hurried out to do whatever he does out there fourteen hundred times a day.