Owning an orange cat is like living with a drunk college roommate who never graduates. Mine is named Beans, and honestly, I should’ve just named him Regret. This morning, I hear a crash in the bathroom. Not unusual. I walk in and find Beans… sitting inside the sink… with the toothbrush in his mouth like he’s reenacting a Colgate commercial. He’s purring like he just solved world peace. I take it from him. He slaps me. I walk away. He follows. Biting my ankle.
Fast forward to breakfast-l crack an egg into the pan and turn for two seconds. Guess who’s on the counter? Paw directly in the yolk. Eyes locked on mine. No remorse. Just vibes. Later, I catch him trying to “hide” behind the curtain. Except-he’s too fat. His entire butt is sticking out, tail wagging like he’s proud. I say “Beans, I see you,” and he panics, bolts out, and slams directly into the wall like it offended his ancestors.
I swear, this cat has zero survival instinct and maximum energy. He’s chaos in fur form, and I love him more than anything. The only thing that’s ever managed to buy me five minutes of peace? That ridiculous bird toy from thepawterra.com. I don’t know what magic is in that thing, but the moment I pulled it out, Beans went full owl-mode-locked in, entranced, and off my countertops for once.
