Carl knows better. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows.  Carl and I have a working relationship, but most of the work’s on my part.  Even how Carl got here was an arm-twisting escapade (read here.)  He does nothing, absolutely nothing!!

Really, the worthless feline folly should be dragging up mice, gophers or little dead snakes.  He doesn’t.  Half the time the flea bag is asleep flat on his back by the garage door. The other half he sits under a shade tree near the barbed wire fence watching the neighbor’s horses.

It’s a one-sided relationship! He can be totally out of sight, but if he hears his stainless steel feed bowl slide on the floor or the crinkle of the cat food bag, he comes running like he’s Lion King and I’m two days late.

I could live with it if every once in a while if he would do something for us, his “people”, as Carl likes to think, that would justify his meager existence.  As it is, I’m going to have to renegotiate a month to month deal, maybe charge him cat rent, something.

Trouble is, Carl doesn’t know his place!  In his messed up wheel of fortune mind, he’s Cat Sajack and I’m Vanna White!

I’m pretty sure Carl should be diagnosed with Species Identity Confusion.  The blooming furrball thinks he’s a dog!  If I go to any part of the land to do a little work, Carl follows.  Walk the perimeter, he follows. Sit on the porch, he follows! Go. Away. Carl!

Then he gets frisky rubbing against my leg. I feed you Friskies, Carl! There’s a difference!  Go be Catsanova somewhere else! But nooo!  Carl just keeps on till I give him a little kick, then he lays down at your feet like a good puppy and wonders why he’s not an orange lap dog.

Well, I’m tired of it!  Carl thinks he’s Santa Claws, but he’s not!  He’s just plain Lucifurr! And I’m not afraid to say that right to his hissing, twitching whisker face!

Anyway, we baby sat three of the grandkids recently. They played outside on the swing, firetruck and trampoline. Grace, all three years of her, has a fascination with Carl.

She made me smile several weeks ago when she had Carl by his back two legs thrown over her shoulder.  Carl is about as long as she is tall so his front legs were on the ground trying to walk backwards with every step she took.  I told Grace to put him down because he could scratch her, which is probably the last thing Carl would’ve ever have done in his nine lives.

It doesn’t matter to Grace that Carl’s messed up in the head.  When he meandered his narcissist, species identity confused self over to see what was going on, Grace grabbed him and started using him as a live, orange baby doll.  She was grinning ear to ear to have a doggy cat to play with!!

Carl rolled with the flow, partly because he’s easy going, but mainly because he’s a lazy, moggy bum.  Grace laid down on top of him, then managed to wrestle him over so he laid on top of her.  Since Carl thinks he’s a tail wagging, man’s best friend anyway, he just laid there letting her pet him.

Then Grace decided he needed to be “Mommied”.  She picked up him by his head and shoulders while dragging his hind quarters and tail across the grass.  It was like a wrestling match:

In the blue corner, weighing in at 28 pounds, with brown hair, brown eyes, wearing a white butterfly dress and pink shoes is the 3-year old reigning champion, Graaaace! (Cheers, enthusiastic applause, standing ovation.)

In the red corner, weighing 19 pounds, orange hair, blue eyes, chipped under his neck from the vet, the cat who thinks he’s a crossed dressed dog, Caaaarrrl!  (Boos, hisses, people holding newspapers in front of their faces ignoring him.)

When the bell rang, Grace made the first move.  It was wonderful!! I enjoyed Carl’s misery so much at the hands of my precious, angelic granddaughter that I got the camera to record the moment.

Several times Carl looked at me indignantly, as if asking why in the world I wouldn’t step in and stop her.  I just smiled and took more pictures.

So Carl, let me explain the deal, pickle.  You don’t do anything around the house to earn your keep, therefore, you can at least endure the forbearing torture of your dogless self.  Hey, if you actually did something Carl, other than kill baby birds, (click here for how), then I may, probably not, but might, semi-consider giving you a break and say, “Grace, leave the kitty cat alone.”

But you, wanna be Lassie, you want the benefits of being a lazy cat while claiming the privileges of a beloved family dog.  Uh, uh, Carl! It ain’t gonna work that way!  Now you just lay there with your flea bitten, hairball hacking self and let her mommy you!  And while you’re at it, get the smirk off your face, fuzz bucket!

Sure enough he did.  At least, until Grace tried to make a flying clothesline wrestling move and let him out of her grasp for a minute.  That’s when Carl made a dash for solace and independence by running under the truck.  Grace came lumbering after him like an angel after manna, so Carl madly dashed up an oak tree on the property line near the horses again.

Somehow, I think Carl knew what was about to happen, because suddenly Grace looked bored.  She spied the swing, then barged toward me as I leisurely sat in a patio chair.  She grabbed my hand saying, “Pawpaw. Pawpaw!” … something, something unintelligible, something … “Sing me!”, pointing at the swing set.

I got up and started swinging the little princess.  It was all comfortable, fun and games up to that point, but then I actually had to do something.  I happened to glance at Carl still sitting up in the tree. He was looking at me with a shrewd, catty look that said, “I outsmarted you, Old Yeller!”

That’s when I realized, Carl did it to me, again!  And “Old” Yeller?!!!

One day, Carl!  I’m warning you!  One day!!!!