A cat’s brain is not particularly large, only about twice the size of the average Irishman’s. Nonetheless, the feline mind is fertile ground for evil schemes.

Turkish — a.k.a. Turkenstein, The Turkinator, Big Pussy, Mighty Whitey, et al. — likes to sit on me. Not curl up in my lap, although he will do that about once in a blue moon, but rather sit on me. If I stretch out on the floor for some situps or in the bed for some reading, he’ll stroll over and perch on my chest, facing me with slitted eyes.

This means he wants some attention, and attention means from both hands. Let one lie idle and he’ll dig his giant shovel-shaped head underneath it. Scratch the left side of the head, if you please, then the right, but for God’s sake not both sides at once. Are you mad, sir? The universe has rules, and cats made them. Now, once more, first the left, then the right. …

I hit the deck for him yesterday, practicing a little Buddhist charity, and after a few minutes of ministrations  the giant furry swine repaid me with a chomp on the left wrist. Not quite biting the hand that feeds him, as I am right-handed, but pretty damn’ close.

Miss Mia Sopaipilla is not a biter, but she also provides periodic performance evaluations. If we neglect our primary chore, described in the Employee Manual as Paying Reverent Attention to Her Ultimate Cuteness At All Times, she’ll sneak into the upstairs bathroom, pull Herself’s towels off the rack and arrange them in a cozy Mia-sized pile on the floor.

Still and all, the occasional nip and/or towel pile is preferable to the stunts my first dog, Jojo the Terrible, would pull when he felt put upon. He would pee in some obscure location and watch with barely contained amusement as I tried to locate the source of the stink, or shred whichever book I was reading. And in one memorable instance, he tore a near-perfect circle out of the center of the fitted sheet on my bed.