The Gray One, Monte Alban, would be happier without fleas, I decide and scoop him off my desk. He knows something's up and struggles when he hears the crackle of the package of flea stuff as I pop the tube out of its foil-backed capsule. I hold the cat between my knees and quickly squeeze the flea stuff onto the back of his neck. He twitches and jerks his head around.
He runs away and I figure he'll be avoiding me for weeks.
He doesn't.
Twenty minutes later, he slinks into the room, making googly eyes, and chirps at me. He purrs and slithers around on the floor. I suspect subterfuge: that he's manipulating me, trying to get me to rub the flea stuff off on my hand.
After all, he is the smart one.
But he is defeated by my distraction. I catch a whiff of—can it be?—cat pee and spend the next several minutes crawling around and sniffing the living room rug.
Monte Alban is mystified and eventually withdraws to watch.
173 words | January 7, 2005 09:22 PM | Felis Major