About ten minutes ago Max came stomping into the room, howling, which roughly translated from Feline to English as “Stop it, stop it, stop it! Leave things alone! I like them where they are! Put them back!”
He’s just a tiny bit upset that we’ve started rearranging furniture in the apartment; the day before yesterday I moved the big comfy chair from the bedroom to the living room, which garnered a few choice meows from him—until he realized that I moved to sofa in front of the patio door, affording him a much better view of other peoples’ balconies. Across the way there’s someone with a little rat terrier (or other equally non-canine type canine) that he likes to watch. Most of the time he meows softly when he watches, and I’m fairly sure he’s whispering, hopefully, “Fall…fall…fall..!”
Tonight he was not amused. The bed is in the wrong place, the TV is in the wrong place, and the dresser is in the bathroom. He complained loudly, so I followed to see what was the matter. He stomped on the bed, complaining. He stared at the TV, complaining.
The dresser he seemed to find interesting.
He jumped up and realized he was tall.
He could see into the mirror, and he was tall.
He could stand on his hind legs, paws on my shoulders, and he was really tall.
And he had access to the light switch.
While most people would be tickled and pleased when their three year old learns to do things by himself, this is something that thrills me not. Imagine…a mischievous three year old able to reach and operate the lights. A three year old who wanders the house all night, alone. A three year old who has no problem doing anything he can think of to wake his people up.
If he could laugh maniacally, I’m sure he would.
I think I’m doomed.
As soon as he realizes that the bathroom light will shine right into my face at 3 a.m., I am totally doomed.