An ever-full water cup on my nightstand is not enough for Umberto Garcia Juanita Lupita Gonzalez III, perhaps because the cup I have given him is small - a child's cup, really. The spoiled bastard prefers the large tumblers I use and so stares at me as I drink from mine, whether I am standing in the kitchen, sitting at the table or resting in bed (especially when I am resting in bed.) I feel his covetous stare as I lift my plastic tumbler to my lips, his pitiful cup disdainfully ignored. I try to temper his spoiled behavior: I tap on his cup, forcing his attention to the fresh water brimming at the rim; I pour a little of my water into his cup, to remind him we are drinking the exact same thing; I drain my tumbler so he will not be able to knock it over when he pushes his head in, looking for a drink. Unfortunately, only the latter tactic works, because inevitably Umberto sticks his head into my (now empty) cup desperately trying to lap up even one drop of water, knocking the the cup on it's side when he removes his head in vain. Only then will he turn to his own cup and drink his fill.
I have ruined my cat. True, I may not help matters much when he goes to get a drink from my water bottle and I pour some water into the cap for him to have a sip. Or when Umberto jumps up to the sink (kitchen or bathroom, makes no difference) either Seth or I will turn on the water for him to drink. Or giving him a damn water cup in the first place. At least he only eats cat food, otherwise he would probably demand roast lamb every day. And I am the idiot who would make it for him.
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