When we last left our intrepid interspecies lovers, they were enjoying a lot of togetherness nestled on the bedside table. Since then their love has grown. Now Madison has decided he is in charge of Pinguino’s well-being.
His new trick is to monitor the water that fills Pinguino’s belly. When Madison has determined that the level has dipped too low for comfort, he gets on my case about it.
As soon as I hit the stairs that lead to the second floor, he bolts in front of me meowing as I climb the steps. Once we reach the second floor, he heads to the bedroom with the constant caterwaul. If I take a detour into the bathroom or the laundry room or the Fortress of Solitude he leaves his love to come and meow at my feet. He keeps this up until I follow him into the bedroom where he jumps onto the table next to Pinguino. I can only assume he wants me to see how low the water is because I don’t speak cat or plastic humidifier.
“Dude,” I say. “It’s okay. It’s not like Timmy’s at the bottom of a well. Calm down.”
A lot of the time I refuse to refill Pinguino just to bug Madison. He will keep the meowing and the pacing up until I fill the damn penguin. I like to put this off as long as possible because I’m the only one in the house with opposable thumbs which means I have all the power, and that’s just the kind of evil roommate I am.