What the hell, cat.
There are few things more abrasive than a cat rubbing insistently against your legs and smugly licking his whiskers, so sure he’ll get some of your steak for a treat, because he’s just that cute and persuasive.
No way in hell, cat. I’ve got your number. We keep the bread in the pantry because of you. You’ve eaten raw potatoes.
(This one is not my sweetheart, owner of the large section of my heart devoted to cats. Oliver is the one that belongs to my sister. He is a sweet, intelligent boy with all the common sense of a brick. He eats rocks and I firmly believe that if he could grow thumbs, he’d already be figuring out how to use the microwave.)