This is Chester. He thinks it’s still winter.
It’s not, but how do you tell a cat who thinks he knows everything.
Today, we are having a battle over his bed. The blanket needs washing. I tell him, in as polite a manner I can muster,m there is an aroma that is bordering on unpleasant.
He tells me he can’t smell anything, and refuses to budge.
I suspect not since he is now used to it.
Not even the tempting offer of stretching out on the end of our bed has any effect.
I guess it’s the time from Plan B.
I give him one last chance.
It’s outright defiance now.
I go down to the laundry, fetch the green bucket, half fill it with hot water, and return.
He’s looking warily at me now, knowing something has changed since he last saw me.
Ah, yes, what’s that bucket for?
CAll me mean, I tell him, but nothing moves faster than a scalded cat.
Not that I would, but I think he now understands the subtle art of compromise.