When he was the only other living being in our household besides Dave and me, he was doted upon and loved like a child. Well, you can imagine what happened to that when Vaughn came along. I can remember the defining moment was when I was sitting in my "milking" chair, nursing a 2-day-old Vaughn, gazing upon him adoringly, when my "first baby" spotted my stationary-seated position and proceeded to leap onto my comfy lap with attendant infant pillow. I recall my postpartum hormone saturated reaction was "Get the *#@(*($)_ off, you, @@#)(%&&*$%!!!!" suddenly seeing Pyewackit for what he truly was—a dirty, parasite infected, excrement caked, shedding hairy bomb about to land on my most precious new pristine creation. Pyewackit, having been thrown almost to the other side of the room, gave me this hurt, dazed and confused expression (he's very emotionally complex), walked back over to me, took a quick sniff at the offensive little bundle at my breast, stuck his tail proudly up into the air and stalked away, never to be affectionate again.
I now theorize that he has developed such contempt for us that he is secretly plotting our deaths. His only obstacle is he hasn't found a new food source and he'll be damned if he's going to stoop to that distasteful hunting business. Dave says he escapes the house every opportunity he gets in a desperate attempt to find a new patron, so he can be rid of us once and for all. In the meantime, he passive-aggressively leaves little turd traps and hairball mines throughout the house, clawing his little wet nose at us, waiting patiently for one of us to mistake him for a shadow on one of the many stairs that reside in our house, plunging us to our deaths, knocking us off, one by one.
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