There’s no arguing with a cat.
Hand to heaven, I can’t say no to a furry face. That’s how my wife and I ended up with four cats. Four of the most spoiled cats you’ll ever meet, too. Every time I open the fridge Elvira (our all-too-aptly-named black cat) comes running into the kitchen, meowing at the top of her lungs. She’s begging — no, scratch that — demanding that I give her some milk. Now.
And I have to, or else she will literally crawl into the refrigerator looking for it herself.
Now she has our youngest cat, Phantom, in on the act too. At first they’d fight over the bowl, so I had to give them each their own. Now they’ve started collaborating. Elvira meows/yells at me while Phantom rubs against my leg and purrs. It’s a good cat/bad cat routine that works every time. Since they’ve teamed up, they also share the spoils. Both heads plunge into the bowl simultaneously to enjoy the not-so-hard-won booty. And occasionally Phantom lifts his face from the milk and gives me this look that’s all like “I totally own you, man.”
Phantom is one of those cats that gets this look on his face like he knows something you don’t and there’s no way he’s ever going to tell you, because honestly, it’s just better that you live on in your blissful ignorance. It’s like a combination of wisdom and pity. It’s really disconcerting.
But he’s the sweetest cat in the world. He’s so adoring, in fact, that he often wakes me in the middle of the night to express his love in the form of head butting me in the face.