I hate my cat so little that I may be even said to love her. I know, what a shock. Actually, it was a feat of extreme self-control and self-denial to endure the first two weeks of my What I Hated the Least Today project without blogging about the cat.
Speaking of self-denial, yesterday I randomly glanced at my forearm and discovered that it was bleeding. As I washed the blood off, I found that my forearm was thickly covered in a number of slashes in different stages of healing. I didn’t recall I was cutting myself, but then I remembered I had a cat to do it for me.
So as not to look like a failed suicide, I determined to skip my evening ritual with the cat. I call it endearingly patty caking, while it actually consists of me reaching my arm down from the bed for the cat to attack before I go to sleep. Hence the assorted scratches on my forearm.
Today, I patted the cat nite-nite and retired to bed, hiding all my limbs under the blanket. The cat, who wasn’t listening when I informed her that our patty-caking routine was cancelled, was sitting at the head of the bed, waiting. She lingered for a while, and when no arm to bite into appeared, she twitched her tail and went away, disgusted.
I thought she took it quite well. But it messed up with her habits. In the morning, she was indeed waiting for me to get out of the bed as she does, but she was waiting at the wrong end of the bed. I believe she was confused. Or just lazy to take the extra three steps to the right end of the bed. In any case, now I need to create new, less invasive rituals for the two of us.