My son took a seat at the couch, you at one end and he at the other. Between you both sat your cat, your preciously perfect cat. As my son angled his legs to rest his feet comfortably next him on the couch, you barked, "Get your your dirty socks off of the couch!" You barked. The cat purred. My son quietly complied.
In a way, you are right. While he had never ventured outdoors, my son had worn his socks for a better part of the day as he walked through the house. Socks being the dust-magnetics that they are, must have picked up lots of cat hair and dirt that you tracked in from outside. (This is why I continually ask that we take our shoes off at the entry way.) That last thing we need is for my son's dirty feet to add to the clumps of cat hair visibly occupying space on the couch.
Of course, I notice that your precious pet is perched next to you. Only moments earlier, I found her squatting in a rather full litter box. It is amazing at how your furry feline manages to find any particle of sand untouched by what looked to be results of a Tootsie Roll factory explosion. Yet, there she stood, adding to day's production quota in her feces’s factory. Then, using a couple of thrusts its back paws to fling bits of sand and poop over her new creation, your cat ended its toilet duties and hopped out onto an almost clean floor. I could almost follow the trail of little pieces of poop and particles of litter as she tracked to the couch and jumped up to snuggle next to you.
I, of course, remained silent after your bellow. The last time I gently alluded to the hairiness and dirt of your cherished animal, I was suddenly the bad guy and you called my words as nothing more than tit-for-tat.
Why is it you love my son, but act as though you despise his presence? Do you really love me or am I just a convenient money source for you and your possessions?
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