This phrase has been bandied around quite frequently in my house for the last two months. For some reason, she has gotten a mixed up sense of the hierarchy of the household. Whenever I was toying with the idea of getting a cat, the warm, cuddly vision of a lazy fluffy furrball lounging in my lap, sleeping all day popped to mind. Oh how untrue that has turned out. For some reason, the image of my mind's eye has chosen to derail and speed turbulently southward as opposed to coming to fruition, as I so wished. My house is now filled with the pitter-patter of little feet, which sound more like sassy, overfed thuds every day. Occasionally a little furry tornado whizzes through my bedroom, twirls around in playful abandon, then darts under the bed, only to pop out only now and then with all her suppressed rage and bite a towel or some other unsuspecting stationary object. She used to have a preference for my husbands feet, but after long, persistent, hard-headed experimentation with getting in a juicy bite on a big toe, followed by feeling herself rocket through the air and land across the room, she has decided that it's better to go for objects that don't object.
Well, speaking of husbands, mine is waiting to return to our little domestic hideaway, and the reproachful miaow that will be waiting for us on the other side of the front door.