This is the face I got, complete with lil’ peeky fangs, after telling Figaro he’s not a very good kitty.

Please don’t send me hate mail! I did not tell him he’s a bad cat. I literally said, “You’re not a very good kitty.”

In my defense, he had just knocked my charger off the counter to bat it around the floor (it’s a fun-shaped disk) and play with the dangling cord.

In his defense, he’s a cat and therefore obligated to knock my stuff off any flat surface at every available opportunity. It’s in his nature. Because cat.

Also in his defense, he might have been trying to get my attention.

You: Why?

Me: *whispers* His food bowl was empty.

You: *looking puzzled* What?

Me: *slightly louder* His food bowl. Was empty.

You: *still looking confused* Huh?


You: *gasps in horror*

Me: I know! I’m a terrible cat mom!

Note: In case you’re not entirely sure how all of that should sound in your head, here’s a little video snippet that will make clear my intentions. Go ahead and watch. I’ll wait.

*** pause for video clarification ***

Oh, good! You’re back! You replayed our conversation in your head with the appropriate dramatics, didn’t you? Please tell me you did.

Yay! We can still be friends.

Picking up where I left off.

(Source: Pinterest)

Yes, I let Figaro’s bowl get empty. Legit empty. There were a few little kibbles and crumbs (he has licked it clean before), but it was definitely more than cat-logic empty, which, for those of you not ruled by these purry (and ever-so-slightly manipulative) creatures, is a nose hole.

He must have been certain that starvation was imminent. Because cats are quick to insist starvation is imminent.

Like any child, I’m sure Fig’ll hold it over my head and bring it up years down the road to remind me just how tough his life has been, the same way I periodically remind my mom about the time she not only forgot to pick me up from orchestra but she also forgot my very existence. She had no idea who I was when I called to see why she hadn’t come for me! (See what I did there.) I believe I was in the fourth grade, so about 9 or 10 years old. I’m 44 now.

Figaro will lord this and other slights – real and perceived – over me for years to come. It’s his duty as a child.

Combine that with his responsibility as a cat to be as annoying as felinely possible whilst also being absolutely endearing, and I’m in trouble. Major trouble. Time-to-stock-up-on-kitty–treats trouble.

Let me finish this missive by saying I know without a doubt that Figaro is a good boy. You know I know he’s a good boy. And most importantly, he knows I know he’s a good boy. And he’ll (continue to) use it — along with that face — to his advantage every chance he gets.

Because cat.

PS While he’s sure to bring up my latest transgressions (1. empty bowl, 2. “not a good kitty”) in the days, weeks, months and years ahead, the way a cat-kid must, he certainly was not losing any sleep over them last night. I, on the other hand, was awake most of the night. Serves me right, doesn’t it?