Because picspam cuteness is never complete without cats, am I right?

When I’m not cooing over mini-Rhodes Scholars (and their itty-bitty Indiana Jones Lego figures – please note the lovingly-rendered five-o’clock shadow) there are always the cats. If you’ll recall, there are two of them, Dolly (Shoemom’s) and Lucy (mine):

No, I don't make my bed as often as I should. Focus, people! A rare moment of not trying to kill each other.

They are easy to tell apart: Dolly is the one who will defend the bathtub to the death. I’ve been around a lot of cats, defending a lot of territories, but  Dolly’s fixation with our fixtures is unique.
What gets me is that it’s so…futile. Picture yourself, the tired member of the planet’s dominant race, wanting nothing more than a warming soak after a long cold day, and suddenly there she is: Captain Fuzzball, the Psycho Porcelain Defender. She leaps in, hunkers down, and gives with a series of curious “Don’t make me do this to you!” warning noises akin to the ones they give birds through closed windows. Seeing that I am still calmly arranging my PJs, she throws herself into full-on battle mode, all pointy parts at the ready:

ATTTTTTTAAAAACCCCKKKK!!! ATTTTAAA...uh, hold on, I forgot which way is up....

And so it goes, night after night for some few years now. You would think that after a couple weeks or so the part about my being 150 pounds to her seventeen would kick in. Even more would you expect the part where her points are routinely trumped by my ability to turn the water on full blast, would give even the screwiest feline brain reason to pause. Sadly, you would be incredibly over-optimistic.

As we explain to Dolly during the standard post-psychosis lecture – kind of like the one my sister gives to her boys, come to think of it, except with more blatant invitations to cheek-rubbing – it’s a good thing she also does stuff like this on a regular basis:

The dealing with humans, it is exhausting.

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