Ed loves me. Totally. Ceaselessly. Abjectly. His love, I know, causes him pain. Because I cannot always be by his side. Because I also love another. Because I am careless in my attention to his litter box.
Healthy and happy, Ed was free to pursue the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed: frequent trips to his handmade bowl (broad, low, properly weighted) to enjoy low-fat, low-magnesium meals; frequent trips to the frequently cleaned litter box; and 14 to 16 hours of quality snoozing. At night, following such a demanding schedule, he would leap to my side, lay his furry head upon a plump pillow, wrap one furry paw around my neck, and murmur sweet nothings into my ear for seven or eight hours at a stretch. There’s a reason we call him Ed. Ed E. Puss.
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But the next time the Problem arose, I wasn’t on hand to try tea or sympathy. I called home long-distance and received an ultimatum: man or beast. That’s when the true nature of the Problem finally became clear. Ed, abandoned to his sworn enemy, was expressing his contempt, literally.
