A few nights ago I was watching the Yankees lose when Buddy jumped on the coffee table, settled into a loaf position and started doing what he does best — knocking things onto the floor.
Usually it’s remote controls, water bottles, my phone. Usually he has the good sense not to knock over glasses with liquid in them, or plates of food. But not always.
Bud turned, looked me in the eye, meowed and proceeded to swipe a tub of wasabi peas (just the like one pictured above) off the table. The package hit the ground and popped open, spilling the peas and their powdered wasabi coating all over the floor.
Bud looked at me, trilled, then took off, perhaps put off by the scent of the wasabi.
A few seconds later he returned as I was sweeping them up, trilled again, and looked at me like “What happened, dude? Someone knocked over your wasabi peas? That’s terrible!”
If he could speak — you know, besides his incessant trilling and meowing — the conversation would probably go something like this:
“It was you! You did it!”
“No I didn’t.”
“I watched you do it! You made eye contact with me as you casually slapped them off the coffee table!”
“You’re mistaken. Perhaps it was another cat who looks like me.”
“You’re the only cat who lives here!”
“Then it was a chalupacabra.”
“You mean a chupacabra? Those don’t actually exist, you know. Have you ever heard of Occam’s Razor?”
“Aliens, then. Yeah. Probably aliens. I keep trying to tell you, aliens are responsible for those hairballs. Remember the time you found puke in the bed? That was aliens too. I told them ‘Be gone, aliens! You’re not welcome here!’ but they just can’t help themselves….”
As George Carlin said, “Cats don’t accept blame.” Even when they do things right in front of you, apparently.
Pain In The Bud 