Although Arizona and I will sometimes comment in passing to Lucy T. Cat and MegaPixel (formerly Pixel T. Kitten) that they really ought to get jobs and contribute to the family's crunchy budget, we don't really ask that much of our pets.
In exchange for them using the litter boxes, staying off the counter, and providing companionship when it suits them, we offer free-choice dry food, evening wet food (with narration provided by Arizona: "Is it squishy time? Who wants squishies? How does shrimp and cod sound tonight? No? Ocean whitefish? We can do that"), a variety of treats and toys, and all the warm-soft things (including laps and the center of the mattress) they could want. Oh, and in Lucy's case, a doorman (me).
You see, while Pixel is perfectly happy being an indoor kitty (seeing as how the last time she was outside she got thrown from a car onto the highway, she isn't exactly jonesing to return to the Big Scary World), Lucy lived for quite some time as a barn cat until the day she presented herself at the back door of my then-house to be let in. And I, having an opening for a house cat, obliged. Which in hindsight perhaps created a bad precedent: she meows at a door, and I open it. And when I don't open it, she howls. A lot.
Mind you, Arizona and I refuse to be cowed by ten pounds of tabby, and thus have weaponized our bedroom with (insert dum-dum-DUMMMM music) the Squirty Bottle. It is large. It is powerful. And, because we've been piling on the blankets rather than heating the bedroom, its liquid contents are cold. Think Supersoaker in the fridge cold (because we've all done that, right?).
Which brings us to this morning. When, at o'dark-thirty, Lucy T. Cat decides she has to Go Out, Right MEOW.
Now this is a clever cat, capable of higher-level strategizing. Knowing that we are armed, she performs a strafing run worthy of the Red Baron, darting into the bedroom for a couple of good howls, then bugging out again when there's movement from the bed.
But I am a higher mammal, which means that I am also capable of making a plan. So this morning I stealthily reached down and retrieved the Squirty Bottle when she wasn't in the room, and kept it beside me, knowing there would be another attack soon.
Wait for it ... wait for it ...
I whipped my gun hand around, aimed, and let rip with three blasts of cold water in rapid succession: SQUIRT, SQUIRT, SQUIRT!
Directly into my own face.
Yeah. I had the Squirty Bottle pointed the wrong way.
So how about you? Any bad pet training moments you care to share? Or unpleasant awakenings? Make me feel better!