Do Pets Prepare You for Children? Yes. Yes, they do.

One of the good things about being a pet owner before being a parent is that you get the opportunity to sometimes practice with parenting tools, such a cabinet locks, ahead of time. 

Now, you might make a guess that the dog would get into the trash or something, or maybe into the pantry cupboard, and this is why I would need the cabinet locks, but you would be wrong.

Luckily for me, Bad Cat is about as bright as a sack of rocks... or maybe a sack of broken light bulbs, because we know how bright those are. 

Unfortunately, Good Cat is blessed with above average cat intelligence and can open all cabinet doors using strange combinations of head banging and paw flipping.  This in itself would not be a problem if a) he didn't open the linen closet and b) Bad Cat didn't love to pee on linens.

So anyway, cabinet locks.  Yay.

Good Cat, as I've previously mentioned, has a splendid and hearty appetite, especially after he has indulged in a good hit of catnip.

One day, I came home from work to find Good Cat missing and Bad Cat looking decidedly put out.  After much searching of rooms, I decided perhaps I should check all the cabinets and closets, and I started with the kitchen since it seemed like as good a place as any.

Upon opening the trash can cabinet, I found a rather repugnant sight.  

There was "Good" Cat, lying belly up inside the trash can, a chicken bone underneath his crossed paws, and a few pieces of chicken skin strewn across his shiny coat.  

And no, I am not saying "shiny" in a complimentary way because he was shiny in the same way that Fat Bastard was in the eyeball-searing scene in one of the Austin Powers movie, the one where he (Fat Bastard) is lying in bed wearing not much except turkey grease and snaggle-toothed smile.

Now before you panic about sweet, soft kitties and the fact that Good Cat might actually be dead in this story, I want to remind you that he was still mentioned as being alive in my other post, so you should stop fretting.  

Good Cat was just seriously bloated, pancreas probably just on the verge of exploding like a water balloon filled with tomato sauce (tomato balloon?), satisfied as all get out, covered in chicken grease-slime, and apparently quite proud of himself.

He didn't even try to fight back as I removed him from the trash can; he was like a 15 lb. sack of nasty, grease-covered, hairy whale blubber.

I had one of my friends come help me set up those little flippy cabinet locks the next day.  

For the next week, Good Cat would sidle up to the trash can cabinet hopefully, a lusty gleam in his cat eye, and attempt the paw-flip/head-bang the cabinet open.

It never worked again.