Monday, June 15, 2009
So The Roommate has cats. Two little creatures, both stark white, each with eyes so creepily translucent (one marigold, the other cerulean) you'd swear they glow in the dark. You might even try to verify this in the dark one night, if the thought that you'd check and they really would be glowing weren't such a terrifying prospect that it's all you can do to squeeze your eyelids shut and lull yourself to sleep with the rhythmic nursery rhyme "I don't believe in devil-cats; I don't believe in devil-cats." I call them the Katzen of the Corn.
They're affectionate and misbehaving little creatures, the two of them. The larger of the two has decided that my bedroom is really a portion of his domain, an argument I have a hard time refuting, as clearly he's getting more utility out of my bedcushions than I am during the day, and at night.. well, he's already gotten so comfortable. They're accustomed to being fed precisely on schedule, and not shy about reminding one that they've been waiting as much as fourteen seconds beyond the accustomed hour, frequently by distributing the contents of the garbage cans across the kitchen floor.
Anyway, Get Fuzzy today just happens to record the circumstances of my awakening this morning, in eerily prescient detail:
Okay, two minor differences: It was an upturned flower pot, not a cookie jar, and the threat on the wall was natürlich scrawled in German. There really needs to be a word for something that's simultaneously adorable, hilarious, and more-than-a-little unnerving. Something that means not funny-ha-ha, nor funny-strange, but more like funny-okay-enough-joking--kids-now-where-did-you-lock-up-the-babysitter?