You can’t turn your head for one. second. in this house.
I am sitting in the living room writing my blog posts. I’m sitting in my comfy Ikea chair with my laptop on my lap, supervising various and sundry cats — specifically Opus, making sure she doesn’t pee on anything, and waiting while she eats breakfast, and second breakfast, and elevenses, and what have you.
We’ve all been here for, what, half an hour. And it’s been mostly uneventful.
I settle my laptop comfortably, since I’ve got 3 or 4 posts to write this morning, and I set my coffee cup down beside me on the tile floor. And I get to writing.
Periodically I glance up to see what Herself is up to, which is mostly milling about the room, smelling smells, and having a bath. So I can focus on the task at hand, which is a press release that I need to post this morning on one of my vball blogs.
I look up and look for Opus. She’s not in the room, apparently.
I look over the arm of my chair.
Bubby is sitting on the tile beside my coffee cup with coffee all over her face and paw. There’s a puddle on the floor around her paw. And little coffee-flavoured footprints on the floor.
She’s licking her lips.
And her paw.
“Mrph?” she says. Which, I assume, roughly translates to “What??”
She’s apparently been enjoying a cup of coffee. Her little hand is all brown. And her chin. And she’s all happyhappy.
And I’m not drinking out of THAT cup again today.