The twins are fast becoming the speed demon on sneakers that Sam was at their age. They bolt across the floors with alarming speed and agility. While this only serves to make me and Leah a little edgy, I believe our cats feel as though they have entered the ninth circle of Hell.
With the ultra-secure, guest-proof baby gate closed tight, our poor wittle pitties are trapped in an enclosed space with Beelzebub and Astaroth in a search for souls.
Emmett, our new addition, hasn’t settled into the household hierarchy yet. I’m quite sure that every time he/she (thanks for the lesson in gender manipulation, Cecilia) hears one of the little demons yell, “Ca!” his eyes fog and everything moves in slow motion, something akin to the battle scenes in Saving Private Ryan.
Isabelle, the fallen queen of our home, usually jumps to a high perch on a couch back and stares. You can almost hear her thinking to herself, “If I were the dog, you would be my breakfast.” Isabelle has fought back on occasion, but not to the extent that she did with Sam. A few good whacks taught him at a very early age that the “Ca” was not to be fucked with.
It is the sheer insanity of being chased by two instead of just one that has them both befuddled. Once they realize that the twins bleed like the others, I feel confident that the kitties will assert their dominance over the rugrats once again. Until that day comes, though, I will enjoy their absolute torture of being pursued like OJ and Al on a California freeway with ChiPs blocking the exit ramps.
Dogs rule.
