Classlessness

“Your cat is a dick,” said the Cute Engineer.

He had been fixing eggs, after a pleasant morning tearing up the gym. The younger pair of cats often enjoy an outing on the glassed-in porch at that hour, just outside the kitchen.

“Agatha was lying in the really good sunbeam by the water dish? And Torvald came along and touched noses with her, that thing that’s so cute when you see it in a cat photo on the Internet. And then he bopped her with his paw. And she bopped back and rolled over on her back. And he bit her on the chest and she ran off to the other end of the porch, and he’s lying in the sunbeam now.”

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This is the second time he’s done this. He really is a bit of a barbarian. Torvald = “he who can conquer Thor,” a Norse kenning referring to Wotan (“the head god and a crashing bore,” according to Anna Russell); Einar = “battle leader”; Magnussen = “son of the greatest.” I may have made the mixture too rich and it has gone to his head. He seems to have gotten way too big for his britches, which, given that he is a Maine Coon (well, mostly), is saying something. Maine Coons are probably related to Norwegian Forest Cats so I thought he needed a Scandihoovian name but I didn’t realize he had arrived fresh from the tenth century.

The words doofus, oaf, and lout are routinely used of him at the domestic hearth: he is a feline Baron Ochs.

I love him regardless. Agatha seems to have forgiven him, too.  But he’s still a dick.

 

 

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