We came home from work today and found that the dog had devoured another bag of cat food. To think that I have to use the word ‘another’ - geesh! It sounds like we’re new at this pet parenting gig, but I promise, we have decades of experience. Experience that is mute against the latest cat to call us home. Stan is five pounds of clever. He opens cupboards, clears shelves, and temps the dog with ceaseless opportunities for lawlessness. I love him to bits, but he’s trouble.
Stan is our son’s cat. He wanted to call him Satan because Stan is black as pitch and scrappy. The name seemed appropriately evil. But we settled on Stan, a name Ethan thought would be better received. He should have named him Satan. The cat is devilish beyond a doubt. Since Stan came to live with us, we’re drowning in relative anarchy. Stan cleverly tempts our poor old unwitting dog into lawlessness on the daily, providing means, or motive, and definite opportunity.
The dog is a helpless patsy, an easy mark, forgiven quickly by authority and loyal to his tormentor beyond reason.
He will also be tottering around the house for days, filling the air with high-fat flatulence and whining to be let out in the yard every 30 minutes. He will be in agony akin to fat Uncle Tony, who has accidentally gorged on Thanksgiving dinner - again. Except he has no pants to unbutton. The best we’ll be able to do to help is provide extra walks to keep things moving.
Walks will make Stan happy. Every walk for the dog ends in treats for the cats (for waiting ever so patiently at home). He caught on to this quickly. While many will profess that cats do not possess that level of cleverness, I wouldn't put anything past Stan.
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