This Ain't No Tribute

Dang, I gotta blog about the cats again. I know it’ll smack of cat-lady, but this time it’s different. This time I’m ticked.

Yesterday Sweet Daughter asked, “What’d the cats do to Bingo’s Water?”
“Bingo” is our anxious, cowering, weasely, sycophantic Boston Terrier, and it’s not just HIS water, but the cats’ dish as well.
Apparently there was some scatter in the vicinity of the communal bowl.

I didn’t investigate.
Even to her own surprise Girl’s report sounded so incensed we had to laugh about the notion of “Bingo’s Water.” He’s such a wimp.
We joked about the myriad of sources that the cats use to slake their kittycat thirst, also laughing about the fact that Bingo is such an uber-sissy he’d wait in line to eat his own food.
The feline offense was laughable. We laughed.
I laughed it off.

I still didn’t bother to look into it when Girl mentioned it again moments later.
Her remark was more like reflection, I reasoned. (I was reading YOUR blog so don’t judge.)

Both of our cats customarily put their paws into the water, stirring and sampling before drinking. Think feline oenophile. Swirl, swirl, swirl. Sniff. Sip.
Long-haired cat has a crippled foot. When he gets a dip he goes in Whole Hog, soaking his long fur to the elbow and leaving a trail of paw-sized puddles when he’s finished.

THAT’s what I anticipated when I filed the issue for later observation.

When hunger drove me out of the office I discovered at least two quarts of water were puddled on the floor around the Dog’s Dish.
Yes dammit that’s Bingo’s Dish.

Where’s my spray bottle?