The Cat

 The cat, who doesn't have an official name, is a dumb-as-a-rock ginger tabby. He's over 13 years old but doesn't look or act that old. 

 I've blogged before about his ability to start yowling at 3am, letting off once every second or so, and keep it up for HOURS. He sits in the most acoustically advantageous position, the middle of the staircase, to project his desperate cries for food to all corners of the house. If I or one of the dogs even twitches, he comes running into the bedroom screaming loudly, frantic that we somehow might be having a feast behind his back. 

He has full run of the house and for the most part stays out of trouble. His usual sleeping spot is in the upstairs storage room where he has two comfy beds to choose from. But occasionally he will show up in an unexpected spot. 

Last night, as I was winding down my evening, I carried Frankie into the living room to put her in her expen so I could sit on the couch and read for a while. This is our regular routine, and Frankie usually settles down and takes a break from being Frankie. I was surprised to find the cat curled up in Frankie's expen bed. He greeted us sleepily but didn't budge. I dropped her in there anyway and sat down to see what would happen. Science!

Frankie paced, circled, stood and gazed mournfully first at the cat then at me, and paced some more. The cat didn't budge. There was some sighing and a lot more pacing. I said nothing to either of them. With a final sad little sigh, Frankie curled up next to the bed on a bit of blanket. She didn't even get up when I went to refill my wine glass and grab my phone to take this picture.

 

Despite the fearsome prey drive and general pushiness of the terriers, I think it's clear who's in charge here.