The bathroom rug, in its happy home.
The bathroom rug, after kitties have played slip n slide on it, which they do every single freakin day. I spend half my waking hours unclumping the rugs.
The kitchen, in all it's lovely be-rugged glory.
The kitchen, when I return from work after a long day slaving at the cubicle farm.
Yes, the weasels, caught in the act, their eyes aglow with: yo, don't harsh my mellow, either climb on a rug for a ride or get us another snack, Katmama. Otherwise, talk to the paw cuz the pointy swivel ears ain't hearing ya.
Or I shall attack your feet, Katmama! <<gripping, gnawing, insertion of tiny fangs thru thin socks>> Argh! Arghhhhhhhhh! Arghghghghghghghghghghg!!!
Different day. Same hijinks. I've learned that getting up in the middle of the night can be trecherous, little rug mines scattered all over and whatnot.
And the clothes drying rack? That ain't no stinkin' drying rack. It's a pitching range for feline paws. Those are not socks. They are potential feline fastballs.
Does this capture the majesty that preceded this pic? I think not. Best to picture two tabby felines swirling around in the sink like silky vermin, and then Katmama turns on the tap. Look at those paws fly!
Not really. I didn't turn the tap on them. See the bowl on the right? That's their water bowl. Dastardly Malcolm likes to pretend he's Mark Twain on the Mississippi and his paws are a paddleboat. Why is their water bowl here and not with their food bowls? Because they don't want it there. They want it here. How do I know?
Because I am the Katmama. I know these things. And I am here to serve . . .