Sunday, February 21, 2010

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Future Profession: Cat Burglar

Look at that face. So smart, so sweet. Cunning and sly, I tell you! We have successfully dealt with his Croc addiction, but Bingo has replaced it with a sock addiction. (I'm worried that perhaps being in the library all the time is making him a bit literary, hence this rhyming of his addictions). He did on occasion snatch the loose sock or two and mouth it (he's never destroyed anything), but he's always brought it over on command and dropped it happily enough. Last week though, he upped the ante.

We were watching TV and Bingo walked in and flopped onto his bed, which was stationed in front of the TV. Perhaps he hoped that the lip of the bed might have hid his munching, but it didn't.

"What do you have? Bingo, come here." It was a sock. He dropped it and went back to his bed for a few minutes. About five minutes go by and I notice that he is being furtive in his bed again.

"Bingo, come here." Another sock. Seriously? Where is he getting all these socks? I put my socks in the laundry basket and they are my socks he has, not Fred's. I want to cast the evil eye over at Fred and say, "Are you leaving your socks on the floor?" and shake the sock around wildly for emphasis, but he'll see right away that it is one of my little athletic socks. No way to cast away blame! I look at Bingo. "Where are you getting these socks?" He stares back patiently. He knows. Give me five minutes and I will be staring at the half pipe cheering on Shaun White and forgetting that he had a sock. The tip of his tail wags. I narrow my eyes. I'm on to you, little man!
So I lean back in my easy chair pretending to lose myself in the Olympics. Bingo goes back to bed. About two minutes later, he's up and walking slowly to the breakfast room. I remain motionless. If I make eye contact, he'll know the jig is up. I wait until he's past me to turn and watch him walk into the breakfast room.

Reaching the breakfast room, he turns and moves slowly into the kitchen and out of sight (This is a seriously circuitous way he has chosen to get to the dining room table. He could have just turned right and been in the dining room, but no, he put some thought into this.). As he is hidden from me, I get up and move so I can see into the dining room and the dining room table, which I now see is stacked with folded laundry (another reason not to accuse Fred: he did all the folding!). Bingo leaves the kitchen on the side of the dining room table that has the mound of freshly laundered socks, piled high and gleaming whitely in the dark.

I bend down so I can see through the legs of the table and at that moment Bingo turns his head to get a sock and sees me looking at him.

We stay that way for about a minute.


I walk over and show him a sock. "No." I point to the table. "No."

He seems a bit deflated. But he doesn't get any more socks. I claim victory over tonight.

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