This morning, Whiskey Kitty chose violence. Not the dramatic kind, just the relentless, pointy-toothed, pounce-and-bite variety that says, wake up, human, the bowl is empty and I am offended. I wanted to sleep in. That was adorable of me to think. Instead, I now have kitty bite marks decorating my wrists like some sort of very small, very judgmental tattoo artist went to town.
I dragged myself out of bed earlier than usual and handled the crisis: food, water, peace restored. Or so I thought.
Later, while I was cleaning out her litter box, Whiskey decided to crawl right in and go to the bathroom while I was still scooping. Mid-clean. No hesitation. No shame. Just locked eyes with me like, this is my moment. WHAT’S WITH THE ATTITUDE, CAT???
This all comes after I gave her new freedoms. Full downstairs access. The whole house. Independence. Responsibility. And just like that, she’s no longer a kitten. She’s a troubled teenager. Rebellious. Into everything. Testing boundaries. Making statements in litter boxes.
I guess this is what happens when you loosen the reins. One minute they’re tiny and helpless, the next minute they’re rolling their eyes and leaving symbolic messes. What can I say? Girls will be girls.
No smoking today. Just claws, bites, and a lesson in parenting. I got this. 🐾💪
by Dan and Bonkers
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