the trill of … victory?

In the annals of furry FUs, this:

Big Orange.

Biggie.

Bigs.

Aka our beloved bastard Biggles, not allowed on our kitchen-island counter.

Says me, anyway.

Biggles himself refuses to acknowledge this, despite our long-standing ritual of him climbing up, sometimes in blatant view of disbelieving humans, to investigate whatever — untended wet cat food being prepped, pizza, wine (dammit, Bigs, cats don’t even like wine, not even a hearty Italian Zinfandel; how many times do you have to check and then make that disgusted face?), only to then be assaulted by a fine high-velocity stream of water, to whatever part of him cannot then avoid getting hit. Because by this point, the Bad Kitty Spray Bottle (labeled as such in faded Sharpee, and standing always, and clearly ignored, on the very same counter) has been nabbed by a family member, most often me, and Big Orange has begun his getaway, trilling in frustration as he goes. And he always has a lot to say.

Sometimes, one of us humans moving for the water bottle is enough, though mostly, no. My son, Luke, likes to simply pick it up and make a spraying sound with his mouth, to see Biggles look at him in disdain, trill softly, and then jump down to the tile floor. We all find our joy where we can.

Typically, I keep squirting the handsome sweet monster till he has left the room, chattering at me the whole way, only to appear back in the kitchen seconds later, still shaking off water, often still trilling at me; he has a tiny trill for such a big boy. Then, feeling a wee bit guilty, cuz he’s a beauty, and an absolute doll of a dude, really, I typically pick him up, draping his long fluffy self over one shoulder, and he purrs his tiny purr, rubbing his wet head all over my face. When I put him back down, I, too, am soaked. In this endless dance of kitty-counter-spray-run, I don’t think this qualifies as a win for me.

Let’s be clear: This is not a behavior indulged in by the other three sighted cats, while Old Blind Boy, aka Banjo, luckily seems not to remember the Off-Limits Counter still exists, from back in his bad-kitty days of one-eyed sight, before those hollow dark sockets started staring back at me in love or reproach or whatever. Because back then, pre-Biggles joining the family, Banjo was the Bad Kitty so dedicated on the spray bottle. And no, unlike some things that willful boys are told not to do cuz indulging in said unnamed voodoo will make them blind, the water spray did not do so with Banjo, thank you, oh sarcastic reader; glaucoma gets the credit here.

But as to Big Orange, and the counter, and the box …

So a package is on the table when I get home from work, some damn mail-order thing or other. I open said package, remove said damn thing, and march off to put it in some damn place. I return to … Biggles, actually stretched out, fully. In the box. On the counter. The goddamn off-limits counter.

And he looks content as all hell. He glances at me and … nothing.

I glare at him in what should be clear reproach, but he continues his brazen luxuriating. Because he is a cat, after all, and this is a box, and really, who was the damn fool who left it on the counter anyway?

I do not, however, put much stock in his unstated argument. But, still, who would believe this willful affront, after such a history of admonition? I need a picture! I need evidence! So I pop out my phone and tap into the camera, and … Biggles immediately decides my proximity is sullying his feline down-time. He stands up and, very casually, jumps down from the counter, wandering away, seemingly bored now with the whole thing.

No picture.

No proof.

So, just to confuse everything further, I immediately go get him, and put him back in. The box. On the counter. He seems nonplussed, but, whatever, OK.

“I am taking your goddamn picture, you fluffy orange bastard,” I say. Or, y’know, something along those lines.

Of course, he then promptly steps out onto the counter, and sits down. Right there. On the counter. The no-kitty-on-counter counter. And he considers me, mildly. Because clearly, he has just won. The counter is now his. I have all but said so.

As in fuck you, Frankman.

“Oh, no,” I say. “Uh-uh.” At least I think I said that. I mean, it sure sounds like me.

So I put him Biggie back in the box, again, proof still needed of this horrible upending of the kitty-human dynamic. He does not see any value in any of this song-and-dance, and starts to move toward getting out of the box, again. I quickly snap a couple shots. And then …

I set down my phone, grab the spray bottle and squirt him anyway. Because, principle, goddammit! This is bigger than me. The rightful order of things needs re-establishing. Bad kitty. Spray bottle. Run. Repeat, as necessary.

Biggles stands there for a second, in what I imagine is shock and disbelief, because didn’t we just establish this whole counter-ownership thing, and fuck you, Frankman?

So I squirt him again.

And then once more again.

The third shot does the trick. And he trills; it is a good trill. And he jumps down, to the floor, trill, fuck you, trill, trill, trill! To my credit, I do not now squirt him again, post-counter, though I am sorely tempted.

May that be a mixed message to ya, big guy!

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