The Dinnertime Routine

So I came home from work (still in the daylight, thanks to this daylight savings thing)(yay!) and the kitties all galloped out into the driveway to greet me with yowls (as usual). It was after 6pm and so therefore after dinnertime, and how dare I arrive home so late! Scrappy heads straight for the door and starts bashing at it to get in. Eva does her best cute performance of rolling around on the concrete and presenting her tummy for scratching, and then chasing after me as I walked and flinging herself down again for more tummy scratching, and more chasing and flinging, and more flinging, and WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME!!!

They all followed me inside in a tangle, still yowling and falling over each other to try and get to the fridge. However it was a nice evening, and the house was a bit stuffy. I put the mail and my purse down on the table and opened up the doors to the deck. “Sorry guys, but you can wait for a little bit while I air the house out.”

See, we have rules in our house. Not many, but at least a few. One of the rules is that the kitties all stay inside at night. They don’t go out until after breakfast, and when we put dinner down for them that means all the doors and windows will be shut. They don’t eat until they’re inside, and they don’t get to go out again after dinner. Most of the time they are fine with this, because they know that those are the rules, however sometimes Eva will forget and think that she can bat at the door in the evening and request to go outside. She’s adorable and she thinks that will mean she can get her way (which works for most things, but not this).

So, since there was still some opportunity to enjoy the warm evening air, I decided that the cats could wait a bit for their dinner – when I would have to close the doors.

10 minutes later and Scrappy is sitting under the table in a huff. Eva was up on the couch, brimming with smooches and purrs, still trying to convince me that it was dinnertime. Next thing we know, there’s a bird outside making a frightened “squeesqueesquee!!!

Eva is out the door like a shot, down low, in full hunting stalk. I wander out onto the deck to find Gomez on the lawn with a live blackbird in his mouth. Not a native bird (thankfully), but he clearly wasn’t willing to wait for dinner like the others.

“Gomez,” I say calmly but firmly, “drop it.”

He glares at me. The bird just stares.

“Gomez… you will spoil your dinner.”

More glares.

Nonchalantly, I pick up a plastic scrub brush that was sitting on the deck. I gently toss it at him, underarm, like I was throwing a horseshoe.

It lands plum across Gomez’s shoulders. Nowhere near heavy enough to hurt him, but he hadn’t seen it coming. He leaps sideways in surprise and releases the bird, which flies away in sheer panic – with Eva hot on its tail. Gomez goes and hides under the deck, lest I lob any more scrub brushes his way.

I heave a sigh and call them inside for dinner. Eva runs back inside happily. With Gomez it’s more of a sulking stalk. He glares at me all the way to the fridge.

Party pooper.



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