[My apologies to those who have already seen this via Facebook, but I wanted to preserve it on here.]
One of the most daunting tasks I face daily is trying to coerce Chooch into playing quietly while I attempt to get some exercise in. Sometimes he’s a great sport about it; other times he winds up peeing down the basemnet steps with a Sharpie’d replica of Picasso on his thigh and stomach. (Don’t worry – he saves feline mutilation for when I’m washing dishes, apparently.)
Today, I tried a different tactic.
“Chooch,” I started with hesitation. “Let’s exercise together. We could do yoga or something.”
He seemed game and discarded the hatchet he was using to make flesh ribbons of his latest victim.
I found a beginner’s Yoga program on FitTV and turned it on in hopes that if anything, maybe it would mellow his shit out a bit.
“This is really stupid,” he said as we began with arm and shoulder stretching. Then it was time to salute the sun and this perplexed Chooch. “But I can’t see the sun today,” he said in that haughty tone, pointing over his shoulder at the window, where the overcast sky coasted past.
“Your body should start to feel warm now,” the instructor said as she went from cobra to downward dog.
To my right, I could hear Chooch muttering under his breath. I stole a quick glance and his ass was in the air, his limbs a pretzled mess beneath him. “I don’t think I’m doing this right,” he mumbled in defeat.
I couldn’t bear to see him quit because it was just too hilarious, so I insisted that he was doing fine. “Seriously, you’re doing this better than I am,” I encouraged, which wasn’t even really a lie considering how much I HATE Yoga. (Pilates girl all the way, yo.)
“What the hell is she doing now?” Chooch asked no one in particular. “God, I really hate this broad.”
By the time he moved to Warrior, I had to stop for fear of pissing myself.
(And yes, I’m aware that we’re probably the last household in America without a flat screen. Us and roadside motels.)