cats: those are MY treats. MINE.

[ Loiosh, an orange tabby wearing a green harness, stands on a pile of detritus between the van’s front seats. He’s pawing at the white lid of a container that’s kinda wedged in between some other stuff. ]

Treats. TREATS.

(He knows EXACTLY how to get me to hand em out, too.)

(it’s by being a BUTTHOLE & making NOISE.)

[ His claws are hooked around the lid and he’s pulled it over almost on its side. Treats are just visible through the clear sides of the jar. ]

He tips it. Then he lets it fall. Then he tips it. Then he lets it fall. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Then I give him some treats.

Eventually, though, I get tired of it, & eventually, he gives up. (Usually, there’s a fair amount of time between these occurrences.)

[ He has, indeed, given up, and laid down, but he’s laying with one foreleg draped extremely casually over the treats. ]

HIS treats.

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