Penwiper may be the creature in the Kitten Farm PNW with the strongest drives and habits.
When Whitey climbs a tower to reach the top of the adjoining bookshelf, Penwiper will be there right after him to take on station on the top of the tower (trapping Whitey) until we mist the Fluffy Ninja.
When I rise in the dead of night and head for the library due to insomnia, Penwiper will rouse himself, hop down from the bed, and join me at the futon with a purr before I can sit down. Once seated, I invite him up and give him a cuddle, because who doesn't need little extra support in the dark of night?
At meal time, his aggression can get best of him while dinner is being served; to avoid raised paws and growls, he has to go in the downstairs lavatory. However, his drives show here as well -- he understands the directive, "Penwiper, it's time!" and he presents himself at the door to be let in. If we come home late enough for him think it's dinnertime, he'll head for the door without orders. I swear, if he had thumbs, he would let himself in.
Once he's in, we put down Oscar's bowl as soon as it's ready (to shut him up), and then prep Penwiper's and the Catzillas' bowls. Only when all bowls are down, we let Penwiper out to charge across the kitchen, slalom around the breakfast nook counter & dining room table, and attack his bowl.
(If the bowl isn't there yet, he looks sad and confused until the valet with the goods shows up. True heartbreak, expressed in ~3 seconds wall time.)
He may eat directly, or sometimes he'll wander away from the bowl and ask that he may join me for company at the table. This results in my picking up his bowl to set it on the pulled out chair next to mine -- he hops up and after a ruffle behind the ears he settles in.
As he's wanted company every time I've been around lately, this evening I decide to save myself work and to set his bowl on his chair immediately. Katherine opens his door, and starts to explain to me how when he gets to his station and the bowl's not there, he'll do his heartbroken routine. I'm thinking no, he'll get to his station, take one look around, and head for his chair.
We are both wrong. He comes around the corner of the breakfast nook, spies that I have his chair ready for him, cuts under the table and leaps onto his chair without breaking stride. The happy ninja got his ruffle behind the ears and dug into his dinner.
He may be a creature of habit, but he's a smart creature of habit.
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