Actually, I wanted to name this post Nothing says Love like Genocide, but I didn’t want the title to haunt me forever. Well, I’ll get to that in a bit. No. I’ll get to that now. Because the sooner talked about the sooner done with. Right? Right.
As my mother said to me this morning, it’s really a good thing Picasso is so cute, else we’d have to box his ears.
Really, it’s unfair to blame Picasso. But just because it’s unfair doesn’t mean I’m not gonna. Because it all started with Picasso.
Ah, Picasso. Picasso Picasso Picasso Picasso Picasso Picasso. Picasso. My very favorite manx catchen. I love your smile and your eyes. You are so cute. You are so smart. You are so curious. You are so snuggly. You are so predictible. I think your habit of coming running no matter who I call for is so freaking adorable. And sometimes, sometimes, you are so freaking aggravating.
I can deal with your daily o dark thirty OMG I’VE GOT AN EMPTY BOWL I’M STARVING I’M DYING I’M DYING FEED ME FEED ME I WILL POKE YOU UNTIL YOU FEED ME pokefests. Really. It used to annoy the crap outta me, but you’ve now assured that another, more pervasive habit of yours, is, well, more annoying.
Remember, love is genocide.
Picasso, you, for some reason, persist in your scientific experiments where you test out, in carefully repeated and controlled fashion, the phenomeon where batting kibble out of the bowl… results in said kibble landing on the floor.
This experiment, needless to say, is repeated by you every single day, multiple times a day. You are catchen, I am catstaff. It is for you to experiment, and for me to clean up the mess. Mess mess mess mess. And also? Mess.
Up to this point, my little manx catchen who is two years, four months, one week and three days old, I have, you will note, cleaned cleaned cleaned cleaned multiple times with nary a complaint or a demand for further compensation beyond that fitting my position.
Today?
That ended.
I got out of bed this morning, you see, and immediately saw that I’d made a grave grave grave (hahaha I slay me, graaaaaaave) error. Do you know the Sims game? Where the poor Sim is stamping on buggies? That was me, my very darling Picasso.
Because there was an ant army attack. It was the battle of the Bowl of Kibble. It was epic. It was mighty. It was black.
And it was freaking D I S G U S T I N G.
Little ant phlanxes industriously carrying off pieces of kibble. Ants ants ant ant ant ant ant.
And for you, because of my love for you, I did not strangle you. I did not box your ears. I did not yell at you. I did not muss a single hair on your tailless self.
Instead, I waged my own counterattack. Armed with giant stamp stamp stamping and grrrrrrring and uuuuuugh groooooossing, and a bigass bottle of spray cleanser and a roll of paper towels, for the love of Picasso I killed killed killed. I admit it. The only good ant became an immobile ant. A squished ant. A dead dead dead ant.
Ant genocide. It never felt so good.
