Returning home unexpectedly one day, I could clearly hear the television when I got to my door. Stealthily slipping my key into the lock, I then crept in, surprising the culprits.
They leapt from the couch, instantly offering up their best wide-eyed, innocent looks.
“How do you even do that?!” I exclaimed, grabbing the remote and switching off the TV. “You’re cats, for crying out loud.”
“But we love Maury!” protested Chad (gray).
“SsshhhHHH. Shut. It,” Mason (brown) threatened, through clenched teeth.
“You know you’re not allowed to watch that show,” I said. “I don’t want you thinking all humans behave like that.”
“Well, if you’d show us how to turn on the computer, we wouldn’t get bored when you go,” suggested Mason.
“No dice,” I replied firmly. “That’s all I need when the FBI comes: a hard drive full of kitty porn.”
“Man,” muttered Mason, “can’t do anything around here.”
“You are NOT the father,” Chad whined, turning his back.
“There’s plenty to do around here,” I countered. “You have those boxes from the printers that you haven’t let me throw away for three months now; go be in those. Or you can mount a toy mouse recovery expedition. There must be twelve million of ‘em in this place, and you don’t know where a single one is.”
“Yawn,” said Mason, and then Chad actually did.
“Okay, then, you can drink out of the bathroom faucet I’m not permitted to turn off – ever. You have furniture to wreck, and another eleven hours of napping to catch up on. When that gets old, there’s always looking out the bedroom window and pretending to roar into the courtyard so the neighbors think I’m pulling your fur out.”
“But those are boring things though,” said Chad.
“I do like to parade around the apartment and scream,” Mason mused, “but you’re not recording a demo right now, so what would be the point?”
“Well, I’m heading back out,” I said. “Do I have to take the remote downtown with me?”
“No,” said Chad sullenly.
I dropped it into my bag anyway. “Okay, then. If you get bored again, read a book.”
“Oh, the wit,” drawled an already-sleepy Mason, doing his best Morris the Cat (or Tim Gunn; I’m never sure). He curled up to begin his nap reps, as Chad followed me to the door.
“Listen,” I offered on my way out, “if you feel like making yourselves useful around this slum, I wouldn’t mind if you dispatched a roach or two once in a while, y’know.”
“Ew, bugs,” Chad gagged before trotting off. “Worse than tuna.”
Never said they were normal.