Ben the cat has a very specific coping mechanism for…well…everything.
He believes, not without some justification, that he is the baddest thing on four legs. He fears nothing—not loud noises, not the outdoors, not the vacuum. He has never lost a fight. He cannot lose a fight. Therefore, in Ben’s mind, anything that might possibly break this record—the border collie, for example—should not exist.
Cats are a great argument for belief creating reality. For almost four years now, Ben has simply pretended that a large dog is a mobile piece of furniture. He gazes through the vacuum with a vague, bored expression. Whenever Kevin scruffs him for medication purposes, he assumes an air that says “I am tolerating this, food monkey, because I am benevolent and you do not know better.”
(This is why he’s an indoor cat. Ben would ignore cars and expect them to vanish.)
He took a nap in the middle of the bed today, and Kevin dumped a load of laundry on him.
He ignored it.
Angus, who loves nothing in the world so much as sleeping with his head on Ben’s butt—except maybe clean laundry to get little fawn-colored cat hairs all over—came in, saw two of his favorite things in one place, and climbed on.
Ben is choosing to ignore this as well.
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