The new puppy, Havoc is settling into the house, and trying to get along with the cats.
The cats are making it quite clear that they would prefer him not to even try.
But Havoc is convinced that they are all alike under the skin. Or perhaps over the skin, since I don’t think he sees any real difference between himself and the cats, even though he is now towering over them.
He has learned to bat.
We are trying to convince ourselves that this is actually “Shake Hands. Good Doggy!” But his shake looks a lot more like a high five, and he uses it on the cats whenever he sees them.
They respond either by running away or turning and playfully trying to blind him.
He thinks this never gets old. And it was an especially good day when we left a can of moist cat food open on the landing, and he got his first taste of Little Friskies.
Havoc: That was the stinkiest, most wonderful thing I have ever tasted. Where are you taking it? Bring it back! (looking longingly up the stairs to where the cat food is going as I carry it to safety).
Mohawk: You don’t get it.
Fluffer: It means she forgot to buy the dry stuff, again.
Mohawk: It’s a sign of neglect. We’re rationing. That’s the last food in the house.
Fluffer: If she loved us, it would be tuna.
Mohawk: Get your big wet nose out of it.
Havoc: You can have some of mine. It’s in the kitchen. I want the stinky stuff in the can. BRING IT BACK.
Fluffer: That’s dog food. We don’t eat that.
Havoc: Cat food. We’re all cats. Meow. (bat bat bat)
Fluffer: Get out of the way. I’m going to kill him.
Havoc: I love you. Let’s play. (bat bat bat)
Mohawk: Back off, man. She’s crazy and she’s got a knife.
Havoc: Meow. (bat bat bat)
Mohawk: Seriously. She’ll mess you up.
Havoc: CATCATCATCATCATCAT (play bows and then backs Fluffer under the dining room table).
Fluffer: Swearing incoherently from under tablecloth.
Lather, rinse, repeat.