AbsurdBeats

You are such a weirdo.

Trickster hears that a lot from me. (Yes, I talk to my cats; what of it?) A lot.

Because she is weird.

I’ll dig out the five plastic milk-cap thingies from under the shelving unit and she’ll cry because I didn’t get the one beneath the fridge.

Or she’ll cry because I dug them out and, you know, she really wanted to the be one to get them. Which means, of course, that no sooner are they dredged out than she’s shot them back under.

She also likes to sit in my mail-box:

(Oh, I forgot I had that Netflix movie. . . .)

I constructed this box out of found wood, thinking it would help me keep my mail in order. No, it’s just something for Trickster and Jasper to rootch around in.

Anyway, Trickster at least fits. Jasper, on the other hand. . . .

Well, Jasper’s a big boy:

I’d guess he’s 15 or so pounds to Tricks’s 9.

She still owns him, of course.

And while she’s not as agile as Chelsea was, she’s still able to make her way up top:

Jasper will get on the red stool and stretch his paws to the top of the shelf, but he can’t quite figure out how to get up there (it’s about 5′).

Trickster knows this.

This could be Trickster’s general attitude toward both Jasper and me:

She’s lucky she’s cute.