Tux Wars

There are days where the tuxes make it abundantly clear that they are most def NOT up for the clicky, clicky of the paparazzo.

Yes, that’d be me. I persist but don’t always win. Rocco is a fidgety boy—in near constant motion. At least, he is when he sees the camera. Coco? Her attitude this AM spoke volumes. OK, it uttered one succinct phrase.

Dahling, I’m trying to sleep here. Go ‘way.

She and Rocco have, once again, been engaged in their occasional, nocturnal Passive/Aggressive Struggles. While The Amazing Bob and I are theoretically asleep, Coco, all clandestinely, slips upstairs, eats Rocco's food and poops in his litter box. He retaliates by coming downstairs, sans stealth, glares a death ray or three at her and then leaps onto her window seat (where her food bowl lives) and chows down.

Yes, Coco’s sandbox was clean—she could’ve taken a dumperooni there. Yes, Rocco had plenty of Fancy Feast in his own bowl. That's not the point! These are fierce battles in the Dominance Campaign.

On another night there seemed to be some competition to see who could leap onto me the most. First Coco landed on my chest with all four feet, heavy in the ridiculously wee hours of the morning. I patted, skritched and said “Kitten, I must sleep NOW.” She took off. Only to be followed by our man, Rocco. I allowed that he needed to settle down—he did. For a bit. The Hop On Donna game went another few rounds before they got bored or figured out that I was NOT getting up.

Cats—waddya gonna do. As TAB always says “they’re like three year olds.”