Corycat here. Angeline is incommunicado these days as will become clear.
I simply don't understand The Woman. It's not enough that our peaceful existence is periodically disrupted by That Child (though I must confess That Child has learned not to pester us. I even occasionally allow her to stroke my back--a little) but now The Woman has brought in a round-the-clock nuisance, a whirling dervish of a dog that she calls Jenny.
The Nuisance sleeps in Our room--she has her own bed and I have stood firm (hissing, growling, cursing, and taking the occasional swat if she gets close enough) against allowing her on this one. Angeline--who has taken to spending much of her time upstairs or under the bed--still emerges at night to sleep here. But every night, before the lights go out, The Nuisance puts on a hunting dog performance, slithering under the bed in search of Angeline, emitting disgusting little yelps all the while, or howling at me while I look on with distain from the security of the marble-topped chest.
Oh, I still pursue my avocations--working on my life list . . . keeping The Woman up to par with her door duty and bowl filling jobs . . .
And I suspect that The Nuisance and I will reach détente soon---she's beginning to pretend she doesn't see me when we meet going in or out the door. I will make sure she remains wary of The Mighty Paw.
But I still don't understand The Woman's motives. Perhaps I'll poop on her pillow to express my annoyance . . . no, that would be undignified. A stoic indifference is perhaps my best move. I could ignore The Woman. . .but I already do that most of the time.
I'll think of something.