Not the Eric Burdon Animals, mind you.
When my mom and stepdad married, we had all of the new family together at our place in Edgewater, Maryland. This would have been in November of 1984, I guess.
Ed and Rob, my two stepbrothers, sat next to each other, next to them were their girlfriends, then my stepdad, my mom, and then me. My stepdad's two cats were sitting outside the door, not too happy to be shut out from the turkey-gorging fun.
When the door was opened, and the cats walked around our feet. It was all in good fun, and the cats weren't *technically* begging for food, we let them stay.
Until the younger cat, Spooky, ran out of the door with his tail straight in the air. Then out ran the older cat.
And then we started to cry. Initially, Rob blamed Ed for farting. Then Ed blamed Rob. Both then blamed their dad. But this was no ordinary human fart - this was a stink roughly akin to rotting fish marinating in raw sewage. Ed was the first to leave, with my mom, stepdad and the girlfriends exiting the room. Rob and I, though, were determined to hold out through the funk.
After a minute or so, we saw a little paw reach up on the table, trying to reach the turkey.
At that moment, I realized cats were capable of strategy and gas warfare. They are a capable enemy not to be taken lightly.
I mention this because my roommate has two cats, Mork and Mindy. Mork and Mindy are ordinarily nice enough felines, however, they have discovered that I am a sucker for a cute pet. And, sure enough, Mork and Mindy can sure get cute when it comes to dinner time.
The Twins have also learned that I like to cook, and I'm willing to give a small sample of my culinary exploits. So far, they're big fans of the red meat. Chicken is a welcome treat, too.
Two nights ago, Mork took a crap in his litter box that rivaled Spooky and Sam's from 21 years earlier. My roommate thinks he's sick, but I know better.
He and Mindy are planning an ASSault.