The Vacuum vs. The Cat

Hello. Today I’d like to talk about vacuuming, a.k.a. combat training.

Combat training? What could I possibly know about that? Well, it just so happens that I saw Mr. and Mrs. Smith last weekend and I’m pretty sure I could take on an entire team of hired assassins. Anyway, this post isn’t about me (though it very well should be.) Nope. It’s about the two geniuses I live with: Seven and Voodoo.

When I pull the vacuum out of the closet it’s as if a siren goes off that only they can hear. It doesn’t matter where in the apartment they are. If they’re under the bed (wedged nicely in my box spring btw), tucked away in the cabinets with my pots and pans or drinking out of the toilet, they’ll hear it.

Instead of hiding immediately, they will watch me untangle the wire, plug it in and decide where I’d like to start. Then it happens. It’s like a football formation they didn’t learn by watching the Bears. There’s a red team and a blue team. They must have synchronized a plan of attack during the night.

I watch in bewilderment as my clumsy cat Seven, who can’t even be bothered to roll over, back flips over furniture. Voodoo, who must have organized all of this, is super fast like a cheetah. I don’t even see him dart across the room. It looks like one of those choreographed dog shows minus the burning hula hoop of doom. All the while they’re meowing like their favorite feathered toy was just stripped and burned in front of them.

Once they’ve made it through the living room, a.k.a. DEFCON 1, I turn on the vacuum and start cleaning. Yes, you’ve read that right. They do all of this BEFORE I turn on the damn thing.

They’re lucky they are cute.

Tagged as: My cats are crazy