How can I stay mad at her?

All she has to do is look at me with those liquid eyes of innocence.  "Who?  ME??"

Or purr.  That gets me every time.

I'm talking about my cat.  Six pounds of long orange fur on four paws.  My wife calls her Tiny, because she is.  I call her The Terror.

Nothing is safe from her inquisitive claws.  No letter, no toilet paper on the roll, no paper sack, no box.

She has to shred them.

Have had to hide the mail, or else.  She hasn't figured out how to get into the locking metal filing cabinet we had to buy.

Yet.

She knows the mail goes in there.  She just can't figure out how to get into it.

Haven't put out any magazines in a while:  they were fair fame to her.

Books?  Ensconced in the new bookshelves with glass doors that open and shut.  

Oh, the temptation.  She sits in front of them, meowing.  She can't get to them any more and it's driving her crazy.

Last year, we were two months behind on the mortgage payment, thanks to The Terror.  The bank was understanding.  I don't think I would have been.

"Sure, Mr. Henderson.  I've heard of blaming the dog, but a CAT?!?"

How many times I've threatened to have her declawed, but my wife says that's cruel.

Well, this morning, when I got up ... there was The Terror, sitting in the middle of a mess.  Toilet paper everywhere.

Stone.  Cold.  BUSTED.  When I started to yell at her, tell her "NO!!,"  she gave me The Look.

When I sat down to contemplate the mess, she had the audacity to jump up in my lap and dissolve into purrs.

Rolling on her back, wanting her tummy scratched.

And there I was:  shaking my head, patting her, telling her what a GOOD KITTY she is.

At least she hasn't gotten into the garbage can.  Or discovered where we keep her food and treats.

Yet.

© 2011, Karla Dorman (9/29)