Zero Tolerance for closed doors. Ever. It can be quite alarming to be absentmindedly running a shower, catch frenetic motion out of the corner of your eye, and look more closely to behold a furious, disembodied gray-and-white arm waving indignantly beneath the door crack.
Zero Tolerance for water dishes (ceramic and washed daily) placed on the floor exclusively for the consumption of cats. Instead he has adopted a plastic cup on the counter of the bathroom sink as the only receptacle suitable for drinking water from. Although he could easily make it onto the counter himself (and has done so, which is how he acquired this habit in the first place), he refuses, on account that the slippery surface of the toilet lid that he’s used as a stepping stool when attempting the feat on his own scares him. Because I am a guilty single mother, and because not hydrating your pets inevitably results in their untimely demises, I find myself answering the yowls next to the bathroom sink that indicate it’s water time, dutifully scooping him up, placing him on the counter, and filling his plastic cup multiple times daily. I think he likes the ritual of it more than anything else, and truth be told, so do I.
Yet another way not to write a novel: spend your time hyper-documenting the vicissitudes of your crazy-cat-ladyhood instead.
4,014 words. Back to work, back to work.
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