It’s always a nice, quiet evening around here when I have given Renton a bath. He seems to think it unseemly that he should be so clean, so he licks himself for hours until his coat is glazed with a new sheen of cat spit. It is three hours gone since his bath and he is still in his chair, preening away at a paw.
Renton’s chair. He confiscated it from me, you know. He tries to take his dad’s and his Aunt Cathy’s office chair as well when he is visiting them. My chair, I’m afraid, he has stolen for good. It is half my fault, however. I’ve sat in that chair so much that there is no butt padding left, so a few weeks ago I dragged the recliner chair, otherwise known as the Blue Chair, from the living room into the computer room, where most of my time, sadly, is spent. I now sit quite low to the desk, and my hands fall asleep rapidly, but my butt is comfy, and Renton gets his own chair.
Sometimes, if he is feeling paticuarly oppressive, he will perch on top of the back of the Blue Chair and gawk at me like a vulture. It’s like Snoopy, but with a devil-eyed cat instead.
And speaking of the devil, I now have photographic proof of Renton’s evilness. This is the animal that I share my abode with:
Yep, that’s my baby. The WolfDevil.