Sep 4, 2018
I live with my spirit animals — and it turns out they’re assholes
This is a stream of stories about my Siberian kittens, Nemesis and Loki.
04092018
Nemi’s idea for new fuckery came early today. We were both hanging in the bedroom (she’d jumped on the bed, and kicked me until I relinquished my spot, did I mention she’s an asshole?), when I ambled off to the adjoining bathroom. Nemi runs in with me. I pause to check my face (see what the damage is), and as I turn to lift the toilet lid up — I see Nemi is proudly sitting on it, purring, refusing to move. Well played, Nemi. Well played.
Much like Batman, I’ve found you get the pet you deserve, not the pet you need.
13072018
Loki and Nemi rule their empire with iron paws. Infractions against the state can include (but are not exhausted by): not answering their chirps and trills (resulting in being cat-shouted at until you answer), closing doors in the apartment (resulting in hurling themselves against said doors — it sounds the fucking police trying to knock the door down), not giving them access to wardrobes (just sigh), and not being allowed outside (resulting in crying, rushing into inhabited rooms and pausing dramatically to look disgusted, wrestling each other, chasing each other through the apartment).
On this particular rainy Friday I opened the kitchen door so they could see/smell/hear/feel that it was wet (bear in mind the very long hot summer we were having). Instant outrage. Now Loki firmly believes two things:
- that I control the weather
- that outside the back door and outside the bathroom window are two different outsides
She spends the morning crying and shouting at me for not changing the weather, storming from the back door to the bathroom window in the hope one outside will not be rainy, and wrestling with her sister Nemi.
Deciding that she’s had enough of this shit, Loki makes a break for it and runs into the garden, darting around to find shelter. Unable to find a level of dryness that she finds acceptable she races back into the kitchen, through the hallway and into the bedroom — and onto the snowy white sanctuary of 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton that is our bed. I guess some people would find the aesthetic of black muddy paw prints on a luminous white backdrop pleasing, but not I. Especially as they now pull this shit every single time it rains. It’s a battle of attrition — I have to open the door to show them it’s raining or they cry all day. As soon as I do they run out to make certain. When they run back in I either have to catch them and rub their paws dry with a towel — cue much outraged crying, or they dodge past me and straight to the bed. I put a wool blanket at the end of the bed for them to halt the grub. So now they make sure they jump over it to guarantee landing on the sheets. FML.
02022018
Loki and Nemi, akin to a totalitarian state, demand that you have no privacy. In fact, even the desire for privacy is considered treason and can expect to be harshly dealt with. And whilst it is gauche for anyone to make any reference that they eliminate waste from their furry bodies, no such quarter is granted to the humans of the household.
Both cats will follow you to the bathroom and demand entrance because firstly closed doors are not allowed, and secondly nothing may occur in the household that is not witnessed by both despots.
Loki’s specialty is not only following you to the bathroom, but should you be foolish enough to close the door and shut her out, and forget to lock the door, she will yank it open for you. Oh, and do I need to mention that they do this to guests? Because of course fucking of course.
07102017
Sitting on the sofa one day I tricked one of our Siberian kittens, Loki, into believing there was something in between the sofa cushions, by making a scratching sound with my fingernails against the sofa fabric.
Loki zoomed over, excited about this new noise that was hopefully something she could paw at and torture, or maybe even get to chase and eat. I must admit I laughed when Loki realised she’d been outwitted, and foolishly thought her shark-eyed look of “Oh bitch it is ON” as nothing to worry about.
Later that day my husband was sitting in the same spot on the sofa idly chatting away to me when he suddenly stopped mid sentence with a look of abject horror and exclaimed “What the %$# is THIS?!”.
A cat poop had been taken from the litter tray and placed in between two sofa cushions. The two same cushions that had been used to outwit Loki. To this day, if you are to ask the kittens who put the poop in the sofa, they smirk, and look away. They’ve never pooped anywhere other than the litter tray before or since, but we no longer try to trick them for our own amusement.
