My cats get into all sorts of trouble. Not just the two cats I have now, Hiccup and Toothless, but also the original three cats I had for years. BJ, Lydia and Fritti “moved in” with me back in 1992, and they gave me years of delight and plenty of broken objects to remember them by. While Hiccup is the one who has it in for Pixie’s playhouse dolls, it was Lydia who managed to fall through an open access panel on the second floor of our house and end up trapped between the walls on the first floor. BJ, my Himalayan, was the one with the dirty panties fetish. He’d love a perfectly good pair of Victoria’s Secrets to death, if I let him. As for hair clippies and ponytail holders, that’s Toothless’ preferred play toy.
Then there was Fritti, our big orange tabby, whom I secretly suspect snapped the head off the groom of a Lladro statuette after Hubster accused Fritti of swiping his wedding band. I can’t say for certain it was him, but that fat cat did have attitude.
Anyway, my house has plenty of cats, and they do lots of crazy things. That is the definition of ‘cat.’