Feed me, Bitch! I'm FAT!

It starts each night at 5:15, or so. The meowing. The staring. The trying to trip you every time you stand up. It's almost dinner time for Quincy. Quincy is the cat. My roommate, Robyn's cat. He's large. No, you don't understand. When I say large, I mean Jabba the Hutt LARGE! When she took him to the vet recently, he weighed over 24 pounds! He's no pixie. And his attitude is that of a disgruntled postal worker that hasn't had a day off in 15 years. Despite the fact, that the most strenuous thing Quincy does in his life is jumping on and off the bed.

One of my hobbies is tormenting Q. It takes very little effort on my part and Robyn and I find it to be highly amusing. Just touching him in the wrong spot or moving when he's on your lap will set off the growling. Robyn always says that he doesn't like to be touched in his "bathing suit area." We figure it's one of those 1910's, one-piece, knee-to-neck numbers, cause he'll get pissed pretty much anywhere you touch him. The top of his head is really the only safe spot. (But, it has to be his idea.)

Dinner time is very important to Quincy. From his woeful meows, you'd think we never feed him. He's absolutely certain he's wasting away and will die at any moment. We won't feed him until seven, but he starts asking nice and early. He thinks we'll cave if he annoys us enough. And sometimes, we do.

Living with Q was just peachy until we got our newest addition. Brid needed a home. Brid is a ladylike, normal-sized cat who's the softest creature ever to grace the planet Earth. And Quincy hates her. I have to say, the feeling is mutual. To Q, she is Nermal. The adorable, annoying interloper who has invaded his space and stolen part of his affection. To B, Quincy is the gigantoid, mutant behemoth that lurks in the kitchen doorway so she can't get to her food. They growl, they hiss, and -- worst of all -- they pee.

"My apartment!"
"No, MY apartment!"
"Bite me!"
"Watch me!"

What a mess it was! With a little tweaking and a lot of swearing, we seem to have, at least, lessened the damned peeing. (It was when someone peed in my laundry basket on my dirty clothes that I came closest to the bag-in-the-river method. I'm not naming names, but I know it wasn't me and I'm pretty sure Robyn only pees on her own laundry.) They've come to a reluctant armed truce. They still growl and hiss and, occasionally, Quincy will have a lapse of sanity and thwack Brid on the ass. But then, he runs like hell.

B gets the apartment during the day and Q gets the nights. So, she sleeps next to my pillow and goes digging for the Ark of the Covenant in the cat box five minutes before my alarm's going to go off at the butt crack of dawn. I love cats. I really do. But, they're weird, weird little animals. Much like myself, actually. Maybe that's why I understand them so well.