I have a problem with the cats.
In general I rather like cats, which is good, we have three.
There is this one that is still young and cute and willing to be smothered in Jane’s love on a daily basis.
There is this one that is aloof and completely uninterested in me but causes minimal trouble and loves Ivy.
There is this one, my favorite one, that comes every night and crawls in bed with me and purrs for an hour while I read.
For all I like cats I’ll admit that they come with a pile of unsavory things. Litter boxes, food stealing, hair that sticks to everything, kittens that climb legs as though they were trees, tripping you as you walk down stairs and their continued insistence on seeing if Louie the Dove might taste as good as he looks.
I’ll forgive them for all those things because of the purrs and the snuggles and the way they love the kids.
But there is one thing, I’m just not sure I can get over. Sometimes, when they meow it sounds uncannily like “Mom.”
This is not okay.
Three girls calling, sighing, yelling, screaming, sobbing, demanding, pleading, and asking “Mom!” all day is plenty.
I’m quite sure the cats are smarter than they let on (for instance, I know that they know that they aren’t supposed to jump on the counter, they just don’t care that I know that they know. Got that?).
So when a cat meows, “Mom!” at me it shouldn’t act so surprised and affronted when I round on it with a giant, fed up, “WHAT?!?”
Yes, I have a problem with the cats.
I just haven’t decided if it’s because they are demanding me by name now too or that I’m demanding answers of them.
Either way, it’s a problem.