Groucho Manx…
I am a keen animal behavioralist. Born to a background of animal husbandry, it stands to reason that I would be able to crack the mystery: What. Is Wrong. With Cats?
The answer? It’s the Theory of Groucho. You want to make sure a cat will never touch, use, acknowledge the existence of something? Make sure it’s MEANT for them. “Look, a lovely fluffy cat bed right by the balcony doors so you can see out! And toys! Just for YOU!”
Steely defiance and a waggle of a kitty cigar.
“I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member.”
“Yes, hello there ‘person who puts food in my bowl.’ I find it adorable that you would try to make this basket on top of a six-foot-tall wardrobe anything other than a bed for me. I mean, it’s cute.”
And so, I gave in. I mean you can’t argue with science. The only way to ensure the cat won’t go in the basket, is to take out your bag of swimsuits that she’d been sleeping on, and put in a pillow. If you give in and make it her bed, she will never go in it again.
Fine, cat. You won this round but…
See? The last LOLs on them. Humans can use the internet, and we have a whole wing of it just for making hahahs at them. (Richard and I went through every cat cliché out there, plus all variations of hell in a hand basket to make this, and for whatever bizarre reason, it made me cry laughing. “Wher iz ur man on moon?” Whatever. I think it’s funny.)
SO. I WIN. And everyone knows cats would be infinitely more acceptable in tiny Groucho Marx disguises.
