Watchin’ da birds!
Did some re-arranging of the kitchen counter and now there’s a tiny clear space in front of the window. I don’t really want to see Revy’s butt next to the clean dishes and made the mistake of trying to reason with him.
“Dude. Get off the counter.”
Busy watching birds. Shut up.
“You have six other windows to watch the birds, each of which now has a platform for your viewing pleasure and is nowhere near the clean dishes. Get down.”
Fuck you. Watch me rub my ass on your clean dishes.
“Fine. I’m getting the spray bottle!”
Whatever. I’m going. Bitch.
Three minutes later:
Ha ha! Stupid human!
I give up! The dishes will just have to be put away in a timely manner because Revy will not be denied his place at any window he chooses. I lost count of the number of times I picked him up and tossed him onto the floor. There were expletives. My voice rose in volume until the dog left the room. He will not be deterred.
I woke on Friday with a pain in my chest. Couldn’t remember what I might have done on Thursday, but it was quite sore. Is this the first sign of a heart attack? I was worried.
It was a little better on Saturday, but still very tender, a deep, muscular pain. I hadn’t been lifting or moving heavy objects. Maybe I should go to the doctor?
Felt quite a bit better on Sunday and when I was standing in the shower, batting away Revy’s paws (he wants to play in the water from the shower head and stands on the door so he can reach – funny if you don’t live here) and I recalled an incident from Thursday night -
I was laying in bed on my back reading. There is a cupboard above the bed and I leave the end door open so I can stash the alarm clock in the place least likely to get it knocked down in the night. Revy dashed into the cupboard, rummaged around a bit and launched himself back out again. He landed (you might have seen this coming) squarely on my chest, all four feet coming down with the force of a pile driver, whooshing all the air from my lungs. He then ran off into the other room, unconcerned that I was gasping for air.
Or was that his plan? Is his murder campaign proceeding on schedule? You would think he would figure out how to get out of the trailer before killing off the only resident with opposable thumbs. Or is simple torture his long term plan?