Jasper is an odd cat.
When I pour my cereal in the morning, he hops on to the table and rubs himself all over the boxes and me in a kind of ecstasy. He then closely inspects the poured cereal.
He seems particularly to like Grape Nuts.
(For all of you non-critter owning folk who are now gagging at the thought of a cat on a table or a whisker in a bowl of cereal, hell, you’re probably right: it is unsanitary. I also think it’s funny.)
(This may be among the reasons that you don’t have critters and I do.)
And no, excepting the just-poured pre-milk cereal, I don’t let him stick his face in my food. As I tell him, that’s just rude.
He does generally like to lounge on the table—which I wash off before I prep any food. My tolerance for kitty dirt does have its limits.
He also has this thing with the litter box: He climbs halfway inside and pushes the litter around with some vigor.
He then perches on the edge of the box to do his business.
Then, back inside for more vigorous litter-shovelling. Which leads to litter all over the floor.
Which explains the broom in the bathroom.
C. wondered if he doesn’t like the lid. Possible, but given that he has no problem crawling all the way inside to scratch at every last bit on the box—minutes, he does this, honest to pete—I think it’s more about Jasper than the box.
Oh, and have I mentioned how well he’s training me? In addition to lulling me into thinking the breakfast routine in endearing, he’s also learned how to sucker me into comforting him—even when I don’t think he’s really all that upset:
The steam pipe in the bathroom knocks like hell, which makes Jasper squeak out a pathetic little cry, which leads me to say ‘C’mere Jasper. It’s okay. C’mere. . . .’ So he’ll squeak a little more, then jump into my lap for a round of head scratching. (And if I stop before he’s done, he’ll shove his head under my hand and wriggle it a bit.)
I gotta admit, I doubt he cries when I’m not home. I bet he just rolls over on whatever surface he’s snoozing and dreams of new ways of manipulating me.
That is, unless he falls off. Boy has no edge-sense whatsoever.
Well. Given that this is his first winter, I thought I’d introduce him to snow. It started promisingly:
But any attempt to lure him on to the fire escape ended at the sash:
Jasper was not impressed with snow.
Bean, of course, is still unimpressed with Jasper.
She’s tolerant enough of his presence, but I have seen them lying next to one another—briefly, it must be said—only twice.
He’s very interested in her, but he can’t seem to figure out that her unwillingness to hang out with him might just be related to his penchant to pouncing on her back or swiping at her with his paw or chomping on her neck.
Bean don’t like it.
In any case, as successful as he’s been in charming me, he’s not yet achieved that Zen state in which he can simply claim any space as his own.
Such as the middle of my bed.
Yes, Jasper may be the Odd Prince of Prospect-Lefferts Garden, but Bean remains Queen.