My husband bought the cat a nice new kitty bed. It's doughnut shaped with a round, padded floor. Since I had already gone through the disappointing experience of not once, but TWICE having bought the cat a nice new bed that he subsequently turned his little nose up at, I warned my husband not to feel too let down if Fluffy refused to sleep on his new bed. My husband scoffed at my warning and assured me that the reason the cat didn't like the beds I bought him was because I have absolutely no idea what the cat needs. As I am Fluff's primary caregiver, I naturally bristled at this charge and said, "Well, you'll see! He's not going to like your bed. He's going to continue to sleep on the bathroom mat and the sofa like he always does."
The bed was duly fetched out and placed before Fluffy, who viewed it with trepidation and backed away, eyes rolling. He's a bit of a Drama Queen, our Fluff.
"See?" I said.
"Wait," said my husband.
Fluff proceeded to ignore the bed for the next 24 hours. "SEE?" I said, keeping the glee out of my voice with a certain amount of effort.
"Hmm," said my husband. He then proceeded to pick up the bed and stuff it under my computer desk. The next time I sat down at my computer desk, Fluff followed me like he always does. You see, Fluff knows exactly who his primary caregiver is, and he follows me from room to room, to my husband's great amusement. My husband followed Fluff this time to see how he would react to the bed. I shook my head in sympathy with the poor man's naive optimism as Fluffy once more regarded his new bed as a loathsome and possibly dangerous addition to his familiar environment.
"I tried to tell you," I said. "Have you still got the receipt?"
"Wait," he said. Well, about thirty seconds later, we heard loud, ecstatic purring coming from under the computer desk. There was our foolish cat, eyes closed in bliss, ears pointing forward, kneading rhythmically at his new bed with his front legs outstretched like a kitten pushing at his mother's milk.
"SEE?" demanded my husband.
"Go. Away." I pointed at the door.
I HATE it when he's right! And he's right quite often, I have to admit. But the worst part is his superior certainty that he's always right. I'm thinking of getting him a tee-shirt for Christmas that says "I'm right!" like that annoying guy in the bank commercial.