Tug of war

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I’m almost sickeningly a softie when it comes to my feral cats. I’ll give you an example:

When it’s time to pack up my campsite in the morning, my cats are usually lying on top of my blankets. So I’ll give the blankets a little tug to let the cats know, the party’s over and it’s time to get their fannies in gear.

The cats will just yawn at me, and look at me like: “Aw c’mon! We’re so comfortable here lying on our blankets. Can’t we just sleep in peace for another 6 or 7 hours??”

So I’ll pull on my blankets a little harder. But the cats just dig in. They’re holding onto the blankets with their claws like they’re holding on for dear life as I’m trying to pull the blankets out from under them. It’s like the scene in the movie “JAWS” where the guy is fighting to prevent himself from sliding down the boat and into the shark’s mouth. You’d think the cats would plummet to their doom if they lost their grip on the damn blankets.

So I’ll give my blankets a third, and even harder, tug. And the cats will look up at me with this hurt look on their faces. Like: “So THIS is how you’re gonna’ play it, huh?? Evicting us from our nice warm blankets and throwing us out into the cold, hard world!!” You’d think I was a wrathful God evicting Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden.

So what I do is, I bribe them. I’ll toss some cheese into the cat food dish. And those cat’s asses are up off my blankets in a shot, and gobbling down that cheese.

So it’s a win-win situation. They get some cheese. And I get my blankets back.

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