Sometimes Bart tolerates Rutherford. Yeah, his ears are back, but they’re not flattened in that “when-I-get-into-a-fight-with-this-beast-I-don’t-want-them-torn-off” sorta way, but more like an “ugh-this-guy-again” southward jaunt. Sometimes he doesn’t hiss and he just deals. And sometimes he even lets him lay next to him. Today wasn’t one of those days.
Today when I sat on the mat and closed my eyes to settle in, I heard the familiar tippy-taps that only Bart’s 25 pounds of bulk can illicit from my wooden floors, and I invited him to come sit beside me. He got some scritchy scratches, which I’m sure Adriene would heartily approve of, while I tried to find my breath, but then he let out an ungodly hiss not once but twice in the direction of the doorway.
I looked over to see Rutherford innocently frozen on the threshold, eyes big, paw poised to cross over into the room. All this kitten has ever wanted, it seems, is twofold: to be accepted, and to be feared. Unfortunately these two things are in wild opposition to one another. No, Rutherford, I’m sorry, but you can’t expect Bart—and certainly not Di–to cuddle up with you for a sunlit snuggle on the chaise after you dive-bomb them from the dining room table and proceed to chase and frisk them throughout the entirety of the house twice over. It’s just not gonna happen.
It’s sad because he just wants to play, but Bart and Di are 8 year olds which is like, according to Purina’s UK site which I want to trust because UK, but I know I can’t trust because Purina, 48 human years. A 48 year old should still be playful, frankly, but it’s much more likely that they’ve had enough of your shit before your shit’s even begun.
It also doesn’t help that Husband and I both play with Rutherford this way. We play hide-and-seek, we chase each other, he frisks us by pawing up our legs and running away, and we jump out from behind walls, tap his butt, and run in the other direction. He just wants Bart and Di to join in, but they do not want that.
Ooooor…and I cannot stress enough how much I am squinting and dragging out that “ooooor”…Rutherford wants to be the HBIC of this house, and that ploy for cuddles is really just an attempt at constantly displacing the others from their comfiest spots and ensuring they have a healthy amount of fear of him. I don’t know what’s going on in his mind, and the reality is that I probably don’t want to.
So Bart left with a ragey hiss, and Rutherford proceeded to come into the room and attack every limb I moved. Claws and yoga pants are not a great combination.