Discipline

How do you discipline a cat?

I mean, really.

Spraying water in his face isn’t doing a lot to stop boycat being a jerk to girlcat.

Once, when he was very naughty and made himself at home in my next door neighbour’s house, I didn’t speak to him for an hour. I felt abandoned by him. He was my little loveface, who adored me, and now he had gone to bask in the loveglow of someone else.

“Never enough. I am just never enough for anyone!”

… that’s when I realised I had rather larger mental issues than I had previously suspected. Also when I realised I had completely stopped thinking of them as cats.

I’m not great with discipline. My little brother is ten years younger than me, and very rarely did the word “no” escape my lips when he asked for something. In fact, it seems that whatever he wanted to do, I was there encouraging it.

It isn’t many big sisters who get banned from reading to their younger brother. In hindsight, while it was certainly fun, it may not have been in his best interests for me to read Harry Potter as though I had Tourettes.

At 21 years of age, I can’t see any signs that it has harmed him, but I also can’t stop calling Professor Lockhart “Professor Cockfart”, either.

As for my cats, I think it’s me that needs the discipline.

I need to start remembering that they aren’t human. I don’t, as previously suspected, need to spell words to prevent them getting excited over things they can’t have, nor do I need to sit them down and explain why they’re not allowed to lay in my garden, squashing my newborn sunflower plants.

Most of all, I can probably stop mocking their meows when they’re talking to me after their fights.

The phrase “I don’t care who started it, you don’t bite each other and shove your bums in each other’s faces!” should probably be reserved for human children and the way things are going, Australian politicians.

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