We have a cat. Or, rather, we don’t have a cat. But there is a cat. She lives somewhere in the neighbourhood, and seems to think that we’re her second home. This is a happy arrangement for all concerned: we have all the fun of owning a cat, without all of the annoying feeding and litter-box-changing and licence-obtaining – except for one of the flatmates, who for some reason loathes cats.
Now, we’ve imposed a few rules on Leo when she comes into the house. No wandering into the room of the person who doesn’t like cats. No shedding on the couch. And absolutely no clawing the stairs. Clawing the stairs is the most heinous of crimes, and it was decided that the penalty for clawing the stairs would be instant ejection from the house.
If I was Dave Barry, which I am not, I’d have to preface the next paragraph with “I am not making this up”.
Last week, Leo came in and hung around for a few hours, as she does. When she’d had enough – I am not making this up – she started clawing the stairs, then ran to the front door and waited for us to kick her out.
I don’t think she’s going to be allowed back in any time soon.