So we’re sitting here basking in the bluish glow of our respective electronic pacifiers when the cat enters the house through the dog-door.
I wish it were a smaller such device so I could call it, charmingly, the cat-flap, but we have a big dog. If we had a cat-flap Otto would spend his day sticking his head through it and straining to reach THE BALL, THE BALL, THE BALL SOMEBODY THROW THE BALL. In which case I would point and laugh, and take many photos and post them on Facebook for others to point and laugh at. But the whole point of having a dog-door or cat-flap or whatever you may have is to enjoy the luxury of not having to get up a million times an hour to let the &^%$# dog/cat in/out. This is especially important to Yours Truly, as my end of the table is near the sliding door. The sliding door is elderly and doesn’t slither cunningly up and down its track like it once did*, and on more than one occasion I have nearly peeled my own fingernails off attempting to open it from the closest end to me, which is not the end that has the convenient handle for pulling. So we have to have one big enough for the dog.
At any rate, the cat entered the house and Rhonda said to it, sarcastically, “Oh hello Hermione, did you just come inside so you can take a (dump) in the catbox?” We then expounded for a few moments, jokingly, on how she would totally do this because she is not smart. The cat meanwhile disappears into the Multi-Purpose Room. Whereupon Rhonda says, “She did. She did just come inside expressly to use the catbox. That’s it. I quit life.”
But seriously, who among us wouldn’t rather avail ourselves of indoor plumbing (or the species-specific equivalent thereof) rather than do our business in the woods? Perhaps she’s actually very smart.
*is it just me or did that sound vaguely naughty?