I’ve taken away Peppa’s water fountain today.
It’s not gone permanently – it’s come out for a serious deep clean because it’s making all sorts of noises that imply the pump is filled with gunk and fluff and hair, despite the best efforts of the filter to keep all that crap away. It also has a variety of nasty looking tidemarks and, undoubtedly, Peppa has cleaned her feet in there at least once.
So it’s currently in the kitchen where it will be plunged into super hot, germ-killing water and scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Filters will be replaced, pumps will be taken apart. Everything will be made clean and lovely. As it should be.
And then Peppa will clean her feet in it again.
But for now it has gone.
And Peppa has been looking at me as if I have broken into her house and crapped on her carpets all day.
Honestly, she comes into the front room and goes to where her fountain should be. There is a dish there, one of those little beige ones that says CAT on it, because all cats can read and they should be entirely capable of identifying their own drinks containers.
And then she sits and looks at it. And then looks directly at me. Not at Carole. Just me. It’s clearly all me. I am obviously responsible for her having to drink from a single-tiered water dish. It is I who have deprived her of the option of drinking from three different heights or pushing her face into a mock waterfall of sorts.
How does she know it was me that took it away?
She wasn’t even here when I moved it. She was outside. She was nowhere near us at the time.
But she knows.
I’m afraid to go to sleep, lest I wake up and find that she’s moved all my stuff and left me with vastly inferior substitutes.