He’ll turn two years old in November. He’s all black with a brownish undercoat. The only thing bigger than his scruff is his attitude.
If we were a married couple, we’d be in counselling right now. Remember Jayne from Firefly? This is how I would define Bear’s archetype in our cat crew. I should have taken a picture of him in the wreckage of the twenty-year-old spiderplant he sent down the stairs and killed this morning.
That’s life with Bear. He will flip any light switch he can reach. He can turn doorknobs, and don’t even fantasize about going to the bathroom by yourself. If he doesn’t dart in next to you, he’ll reach under the door to let you know you’re not getting away with anything.
The only time he tolerates me is:
1) In the bathroom when he turns uber-affectionate, or
2) When I have a can of food in my hand.
Naturally, Mr. Silver dotes on this heinous beast. Okay, basically everyone else in this house adores his stupid little black face, except me, the one who has to clean up after him.
Yeah, yeah. I love him too. Most of the time.