In a few minutes their peaceful, sun-drenched nap will abruptly end when I fire up the miter saw, then the table saw, then the air compressor and then finally the nail gun.
I flash of guilt sweeps over me, and then I quickly recover. They’ll get me back for it some day. These, cats. They’ll exact some kind of fiendish revenge — a paw in my wine glass when I’m not looking, or eat my soul when I’m asleep. What ever form the revenge takes is sure to be out of proportion to the original crime. That’s a cat trademark.
Then why did we cave to a fuzzy face last weekend and take home another rescue cat?