passive aggressive

Mister Passive-Aggressive got me out of bed this morning. Now I’m keeping him out of his.

On a weekend, every hour I get to sleep past five o’clock, the hour my alarm clock normally wakes me during the work week, is precious. Yesterday, I got to sleep in until eight o’clock, very late for me. Pretty happy about that. This morning, not so much.

Trot trot trot, the sound of Scooter coming into the bedroom to see what’s taking me so long. Jumpity jump onto the far corner of the bed. Creepily creeping along B’s side of the bed. Silence for several minutes until the soft tinkle of his paws swiping the coaster off the top of B’s water glass. This is one of his favorite passive-aggressive moves. It’s almost like he knows we can’t just haul off and whack him while he’s drinking from B’s water glass. I did that once and dumped water all over the bed. I carefully reach over B’s head to tap Scooter on the butt. He keeps on noisily lapping up water. “Wha?” B asks, half-awake. “He’s drinking your water,” I say out loud to B, who has been softly snoring until now. She scoops him up, scolds him and drops him on the floor. No use re-covering the drinking glass.

Trot trot trot out the door. Squeaky hinges on the bathroom door squeak. Rattle rattle goes the toilet paper dispenser. Shred shred shred. I roll out of bed. Tromp tromp tromp across the bedroom. Scooter runs from the bathroom, up the hall to the safety of the living room. Big pile of toilet paper on the floor next to the toilet. Slam the door. Tromp tromp tromp back to bed.

Trot trot trot. Jumpity-jump onto the desk. Whappity whapt-whapt goes his big, thick tail against the desk. Whapt whapt whapt. Whapt whapt. Whapt whapt whapt. Jumpity-jump onto the top of the dresser. Bump. Scrape. Thump. I pry open one eye just far enough to spy him standing on a jewelry box on the corner of the dresser, looming over me like the ghost of a gargoyle. Whappity whapt-whapt goes his tail against the box. Whapt whapt whapt.

I roll out of bed, gather up my tablet, my phone, and the book I was reading before lights-out the night before. Scooter stands and watches all this excitedly. He’s getting up! He’s going to feed me! Wrong-o, buddy. On my way across the room, I scoop him off the dresser onto the floor, then pretty much ignore him as I brew a pot of coffee. After five or ten minutes, he realizes I’m not going to feed him and he tros off to find a place to sack out.

But I’m on the job now. It’s not hard to find him. There are only a few places he prefers to nap. I check the laundry basket in the corner of the dining room first, then find him curled up on the cat tree in the living room. Easy target. Scoop up the wand with the sparklies and feathers that used to be his favorite cat toy. Whap him on the butt. Whapt whapt whapt. You’re not the only one who can be passive-aggressive, mister. Whapt.

I know he can’t really be passive-aggressive. That would require malice aforethought. He’s a cat. His brain is the size of a walnut. There is no aforethought going on in there. But it sure seems like there is, sometimes.