So we've established the fact that one of my cats is an asshole. The other two are total awesomesauce. Squeakers (a.k.a., skeeky-deeky, lik and skeeks) is my baby. She was found about 11 or so years ago with her brothers and sisters under an office trailer at a construction site, having been abandoned by their mother. She was only about five or six weeks old. I took her in and bottle fed her until she was ready to be weaned. She is the most spectacular cat and I love her to death. A great mouser and one of the most affectionate cats I've ever had. Daphne (a.k.a., sugar, swishy, chinchilla and chee-ra) is very pretty. Not so much in the way of smarts, but very, very pretty. And very sweet. She is mostly my stepdaughter's cat, but she spreads the love. However, Char Burger (a.k.a., little bastard, devil cat, panther and thief) is full of piss and vinegar. He absolutely adores my husband and alternately tortures and tolerates me and my stepdaughter. His latest escapade nearly drove me bat-shit crazy and here it is:
I'll start with letting you know that I am not a morning person. Not even a little bit. It takes a minimum of a shower and two cups of coffee before I can consider myself a productive member of society. I'm part zombie, part vampire (no bright lights please) and all bitch. Before I go to work in the mornings, I typically shuffle/ stumble from one task to another (shower, get dressed, feed the dogs, pack breakfast and lunch, etc.) until I'm ready to go to work. No one else is up at this hour besides the dogs, the cats and me. Which is for the best, really. There would be way too much blood, screaming and general trauma otherwise.
Anyhoo, one morning, I had all of my stuff packed and ready to go (including breakfast and lunch) and I went out for my morning cigarette (yes, I know it's bad for me - I'm cutting back, I swear - shut up). That done, I came back inside, grabbed my stuff and left.
I got to work and started getting myself set up for the day. Went to grab my breakfast out of my bag and it wasn't there. Now, due to my morning zombie/ vampire/ bitch proclivities I immediately thought that I had forgotten it. But I was SURE that I had packed it, which doesn't happen very often (me being certain about anything occurring early in the morning, that is).
I absolutely drove myself crazy wondering what I had done with it. Had I put it back in the fridge? Did I leave it on the counter? Did I imagine the whole thing? Had there been a covert government operation in which my morning repast had to be destroyed in order to save the world? (FYI - I'd been watching wayyy too much Alias on Netflix lately) What the fuck had happened to my breakfast?
It bothered me so much that I actually made the short trip home at lunch time to solve the mystery. Luckily my husband was home and he shared with me that he had found some bread and deli meat in little tooth-marked baggies on the couch. My breakfast! The little thief, devil cat, motherfucker had taken my breakfast for himself!
Now, you might be thinking that the other cats may have done it - but Squeakers was outside (I had let her out when I went to smoke and besides, she's mamma's perfect angel and would never do such a thing) and Daphne... Well... Have I mentioned that she's pretty? Little Daphe just doesn't have it in her to be stealthy and sneaky.
I wanted to wring Burger's neck, the little shit. But he was lounging in front of our heater, looking all innocent and cute - and he gave me a little trill-meow thing and I just couldn't do it. Dammit. He's sly, that one. He has my number. I'm so totally screwed.