Кошка Фредди убеждает хозяйку, что рыба живет в консервных банках, а не в воде

I picked Freddie up and kissed his face. “Oh!” I said, wrinkling my nose. “You have stinky fish breath!” ”Fish is not stinky,” he said, all offended dignity. I leaned in to sniff him. “Yep,” I said. “Very stinky.” He rolled his eyes. Gently, I set him down on the ground and stood back up. “Speaking of stinky fish, I need to wash my hands again.” Freddie followed me into the bathroom and watched as I carefully washed my hands with the heavily scented soap we kept in there. I had recently rediscovered that one of the cat food brands makes a cat treat that is basically just a chunk of real, cooked fish, vacuum sealed and somehow made shelf stable. I’ve been crumbling a bit on top of his food to entice him to eat without fuss. He had been starting to reject his food again, and the fish had reversed that. For which I was extremely grateful. I hate when he rejects his food. The one downside was that since it was real feel, the smell tended to stick to my fingers unless I brought out the heavy guns, soap wise. The lighter scented stuff we keep in the kitchen just doesn’t cut it. I gave my finger tips a sniff and was satisfied. Leaning down, I let Freddie do the same. “The fish smelled better,” was his verdict. Later that night Freddie and I were stretched out on the couch in the living room, me on the couch, him on the back above me. The room was quiet and dark and the desire to close my eyes and drift off was strong. I fought it because I knew falling asleep there and at that time would be a bad idea. It would ruin any chance I had at getting a full nights sleep. ”You know,” Freddie said, thoughtfully, “if you let me into the yard more often I could probably catch my own fish.” I frowned up at him. “You think so?” ”I’m a very good hunter,” he boasted. ”You are,” I agreed. “But there aren’t any fish in the yard.” ”If I wait long enough, they’ll come,” he said, confidently. “Patience is the most important skill a hunter can have. ”Freddie,” I said carefully. “What do you think fish are?” ”Fish are prey animals,” he said. The “duh” was heavily implied. ”That’s true,” I allowed. “But how does one hunt a fish?” ”The same way one hunts a bird or a rabbit,” he told me, patiently. ”Fish live in water,” I said, bluntly. He snorted. “Nothing lives in water.” ”They live in water,” I insisted. “So do shrimp and lobsters and seahorses —“ ”Horses live on land,” he pointed out. ”Seahorses,” I said. “They are different.” ”You just made that up,” he said, standing and stretching. “Trying to pull poor Freddie’s leg. Seahorses,” he added under his breath as he walked to the end of the couch and jumped down. “Thinks I’ll believe anything because I’m an inside cat.” I laughed a little, surprised and amused by his obstinance. I guess I never considered that he would have no idea about fish and where they came from. He just knew they tasted good. ”Human, come quick!” Freddie yelled from the edge of the room. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the couch. ”You have to come right now!” He demanded. I jumped up and ran to him, then followed when he turned and trotted to the hallway. ”Look!” He said, pointing at his water dispenser. I leaned down to get a closer look. “Is there something wrong with it?” I asked. I looked over at him. He was sitting, watching me intently. ”Do you see any fish?” He asked, dryly. I straightened and glared back at him. “I said fish live in water, I didn’t say all water has fish.” ”Ridiculous,” he said, standing up and walking past me, his tail up and curled at the tip. ”See?” I asked, pointing at the television. I had turned on the Discovery Channel and found a show about fishing. “They just pulled all of that fish out of the water.” ”On the television?” He asked, derisively. I frowned, wondering what he was getting at. “They aren’t on the television,” I said. “We’re just watching it that way.” “Like we watch the man who shoots webs out his hands and flies?” He demanded. ”Spider-Man?” I asked. ”And we watch those people in space? Or those people talking to ghosts? Or that dog who solves mysteries?” There were a number of things those could all be except the last one. “Scooby-doo?” He scoffed. “As if a dog could figure out anything,” he sneered. ”Those are all fiction,” I explained. I pointed to the television. “This is real.” ”Sure,” he said, sarcastically. “And the next time you need a mystery solved well call a dog.” I crumbled the fish treat on top of Freddie’s breakfast, thinking about our conversation the night before. Freddie paced back and forth between me and his food mat, running out of patience. ”You’re putting the fish on top?” He asked, rubbing his body against the backs of my calves. ”Of course!” I said, wrinkling my nose a little at the smell. “Did you pull it out of some water?” He asked, amusement in his voice. I sighed, looking down at him. “You win,” I said. Fish don’t live in water. “Where do they live, then?” He asked, suspicious. ”In cans,” I said. ”I knew it!” He cried. Happy Caturday, Peeps! It occurs to me that Freddie probably doesn’t know where his fish comes from and wouldn’t believe me if I told him.