Isn't it funny how you can have the toughest kitty around one second, and then after a little bitty thing that once tough kitty turns into a quivering mass of spiked up fur?

Chewie was sauntering about the place this morning, doing his rounds, making sure everything is up to snuff. He likes to think he owns the place, and I'm pretty sure he's not the only cat with that attitude. He walked through the livingroom, inspecting my paintings and making sure my glass of water was empty. He went to the front door, meowed at the neighbour cat a few times (she's a Maine Coone named Bailey, and I'm sure Chewie has a crush on her) then sniffed our shoes to make sure we hadn't gone anywhere we shouldn't have. Then he went into the bedroom to inspect the laundry piles I had made, and to make sure his stockpile of toys was in their spot and hadn't been touched by his brother.

I was giggling at him. This is a new thing he does. Acting like the emperor of this domain. There is a difference in the way he walks when he does this, as compared to when he's just walking around to get from one place to another. His strides seem longer, his face has this look of power to it. Hard to explain. I get a kick out of it anyway. My tough boy.

Then I went into the bathroom to dry my hair. Chewie comes in and sits on the counter, watching as I put a little smoothing gel in my hair and comb through. Then I turned on the hair drier and woo baby, that once tough bruiser of a kitty instantly turned into a giant puffball of spiked up fur. His eyes went wide, his tail grew to about five times it's usual size, and he stood up on tippy toe, backing away from me. Then, in a flash, he scrambled off the counter, slip sliding on the smooth surface, and sped into the bedroom to hide between the piles of laundry.

My big tough kitty.

Copyright © Rebecca Parkin
January 13, 2001