I don't know what the eff I've done to Bob for him to despise me so, evidently we do not have a good rapport.
As you may remember, Bob came to live with us after he was found in a Barbeque in the North End. I've owned a male orange tabby before so I know that they are 'special'. I don't know if the word 'special' really says enough.
When he came to live with us he was a teeny-tiny knobby kneed scratch machine. We went out & made sure we got all of the things he would need; litter box, litter, food, dishes, toys, a collar, cat weed...
When he was 8 months old, we took him to get tattooed & sterilized like the responsible people that we are. This is when we found out Bob had a crippling fear of the outside world. Bob just about shit his hairy pants when we took him down the flight of stairs & to the front door. We realized he needed to be crated. Once crated, he clawed & bit & made a general fuss up until he broke several nails & pulled out several baby teeth (and made the box crate have the general appearance of a nursery school bathroom after old Johnny booger-picker had another nose bleed incident).
The life we have given to Bob, we feel, is a good one.
He has food (meaty selections not seafood. That's his preference), water, a dad who is literally obsessed with him & can't keep his primitive attention span directed on anything if there is a cat in the room to be cuddled with...
We don't let Bob go outside un-haltered as he would leave the yard & get hit by a car. Bob doesn't lack for space though. He was gracefully crated once again when we moved from a 550 sq. foot apartment to a 1600 sq foot home with a basement. He scurried in to a corner & shit cat bricks for a week.
We then brought him home a cat companion. After standing over the tiny kitten, hissing & looking as much like Hitler as a dumb orange cat can look, he accepted Chevy as his BFF.
In return, you might say that Bob has a role that he must fill for us.
He must have his ears cleaned. If he refuses to have his ears cleaned with dignity he must be wrapped up in a strait jacket bath towel to have them cleaned.
Bob must not jump on the table or the counters. Bob 'doesn't yet understand' this rule.
He must not gain any more weight by eating the other cat's food as well as his own.
If Bob could talk, I am sure he would talk with an air of arrogance & entitlement. That is his personality. I don't know how a professional sink clogger can look so smug with himself:
It is because of this personality flaw, and the growing evidence against him, that I realized Bob is trying to do away with me. He believes that I am an inconvenience in his life & he would rather I not be around.
He has tried to claim my life in the following ways:
-Walks under-foot at unpredictable times to force me to fall & hit my head.
-Tries to sniff the inside of the oven rendering me to almost have a heart attack & drop my 350 degree heat Banana chocolate chip bread on my bare feet.
-Slithers through legs while owner carrying a full load of laundry up the stairs causing owner to fall & injure lef previously compromised by the 'falling on ice/fragile evolution' incident.
-Rolls fat lard belly over owner's mouth attempting to benefit from owner's body heat while owner is sleeping/suffocating on the couch.
-and most recently, this:
Taking up a whole stair on the already compromised basement staircase. In the dark. At night.
When these tactics only resulted in my injuries & not in my death, Bob resorted to researching hitmen. After scouring the phone book, he needed to make a call.
'Oh rats!' he thought, 'We don't have a landline'. Asshole cat devised a scheme to steal an iPhone to place his call.
When the hitman didn't speak cat & hung up, Bob resorted to the next best thing: Craigslist. But oh, wait, he doesn't know the password for the Mac. Foiled again!
The good guys always win in the end.
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