My agent is a traitor.
This week, my Uncle Cooper is visiting. Apparently, Gram and Grand-dude went on vacation and my agent volunteered to take on this incredibly grotesque mutt. This fact, by itself, isn't the issue. It's the fact he refuses to follow the code of our home.
First, it is understood that anyone visiting my domain is never--ever--allowed to make eye contact with me. It's a matter of respect. In fact, Brach lived with us for six months before I allowed him to look me in the eye. This bastard dog stares me down every chance he gets. From afar, he eyeballs me. Up close, he eyeballs me. I hiss in an attempt to address the issue, but it seems there is a language barrier, so his behavior doesn't change. My agent's answer to this blatant display of disrespect is to get the camera and snap away! "You know I have your back, Kukka." Whatever.
Secondly, there are places in the house that are just mine. Mine. The couch, the chairs, the floors, the bed, the kitchen (especially next to the refrigerator, where the treats are kept)--basically every square inch of the house. He doesn't seem to comprehend this, so he has spent much of his time sleeping on the couch next to my agent. WHILE SHE PETS HIM! The bitch encourages his behavior, which is further proof of her disloyalty.
That brings me to my third point: My agent's loving caresses are mine and mine alone! It's bad enough I occasionally have to share her paws with my brother, but a dog? And what is up with petting me immediately after petting Cooper (if that is his real name)? Your hands stink and have dirty dog residue that dulls my coat. I don't spend three hours a day grooming just to smell like a filthy dog. If you must pet him, the least you can do is use a little hand sanitizer before laying hands on me.
Fourthly (is that a word?), my snacks are my snacks. I realize that I am uncharacteristically leaving treats on the floor (when he disturbs my goodie gluttony), but that does not entitle him to eat my little nuggets of heaven! What is worse is that my agent doesn't seem to acknowledge his consumption of cat snacks and gives him treats of his own! I think I need to fire her.
Fifthly...oh yes, there is a fifthly! HE HAS BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED! You know the one--with the cat blanket on it, clearly marking it as a cat bed. I am going to have to have my agent launder that blanket thrice to get the stank and dog hair off of it!
Finally, my food and water have been displaced. Granted, my agent has made a feeble attempt at honoring me by creating a "panic room" in the spare bedroom, but why am I relegated to eating in there while my placemat in the kitchen houses bowls of dog food and dog-spit-water? I appreciate the fact she has propped the door open with door stops so that only cats can fit through (and not huge, canine half-wits), but I can't help but feel imprisoned.
My agent tells me he is nice and I should get to know him. Bullshit. I would rather lunch with the pesky paparazzi permanently camped outside our house! At least they admire and idolize me. "Good Boy" or not, that dog is just trying to antagonize me.
It's a good thing he wears what I refer to as: "The Stink Clink." His necklace is adorned with bling that jingles when he is on the move. When I hear The Stink Clink, it allows me to prepare for our inevitable stand-off by arching my back, fluffing my tail and getting my hisser ready.
For now, I'm just hanging out on top of the piano. Don't you dare think I'm scared! I am not! I am just tweaking my strategy on how to make this dog sorry he ever crossed my path.
Nobody messes with The Empress!
He is supposed to go home on Saturday. I am counting down the days!