Entry the thirty-third: Snags

On an almost daily basis, Sylvie attempts to perch on the towel bar on the back of the bathroom door. She is rarely successful, but she keeps making the attempt. Maybe it's that variable reinforcement thing. Every once in a great while we get this:



And there is much rejoicing.

Nine times out of ten, however, we get a small brown cat hanging from the towel like a monkey. Admittedly, it's amusing... but this is the unfortunate result:



Snags. Snags in EVERY SINGLE TOWEL we own. My sister's boyfriend stayed with us for one night last month and I had to empty the linen cupboard before I found the last untouched-by-paws-and-claws towel cowering in the back. And Sylvie? Unrepentant. Even when I tell her This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things.

It's like she doesn't understand a word I'm saying. Or perhaps understands one or two of them, but can tell from my tone I'm not conveying any information she would find interesting.