And now it’s time for a quick roundup of how the cat’s training is coming along: It’s not. He let me sleep in on Wednesday morning, and by “sleep in” I mean that he didn’t wake me up several times in the wee hours of the morning, but instead let me sleep until my alarm started to bleep. Every other day this week, he pawed and scratched at the door, whining to be fed, or to be let in, or whatever the hell he’s whining about. Ignoring him has not made a bit of difference one way or another, in spite of the advice I’ve read on web sites devoted to training your cat, because cats cannot be trained. I was a fool to think they could be.
“Are you gonna kill him?” B asked me this morning.
“Can I?” I responded, testing the seriousness of that question.
“Of course not,” she answered, popping that bubble with finality.
“Then why did you offer it up as an option?”
“Because I thought you’d see how ridiculous it is.”
“Although I acknowledge that it’s wrong, I wouldn’t say it’s ridiculous.”
“Okay, wrong, then.”
I was never going to kill him, although I frankly admit I have fantasized about the kind of Rube Goldberg devices I could rig up outside our bedroom door to stop him from scratching it, and one of them has a grand piano suspended from a string.