Jake knows not to go in my room to eat April's food. It's there for her, she made that perfectly clear to me
by whacking anyone that wanders in to dine with her.
Jake eats with the other cats, and then waits patiently for them to walk away before polishing off any leftovers. He's like my late Uncle Dom, big guy, always told my aunt, "throw it on my plate Mary, I'll finish it."
So I get home from work and let April out of my room for awhile, and lock Mikey in the second bedroom.
(that's another issue I'll tell you about in another blog.)
Jake sneaks in as I'm throwing in a load of laundry downstairs. How do I know this?
April looks totally pissed off. She's in the hallway facing my room with this PMS crunched
up look on her face.
I walk in and hear soft nibbling, like he's trying ever so hard to be quiet.
I fling open the curtain to the bath area, he stops eating and makes one last gulp.
He won't make eye contact as he slowly walks towards the bathroom and hops in the litter box,
like that's what he was intending to do in the first place.
"Jake, you know as well as I do, you do not have to use the toilet!"
You're in here cheating on your diet the vet put you on!"
He sits in the litter box, facing the wall for I don't know how long, and does "nothing."
He's just frozen ... deer in the headlights type of thing.
"OK, look, I'll let you off the hook this time, so go." He's like a dog and understands. He stumbles
out, flings the litter all over the floor, and runs passed April as she hisses at him, saying,
"I wouldn't have let you off so easy you food thief."
"Tomorrow you start your diet, no more snooping or screwing around!" I yell out from upstairs.
Famous last words.