CornerShot

We’re watching an old episode of “Breaking Bad” when the television volume suddenly skyrockets from about 35 to a window-rattling, eardrum-shredding 100.

Neither of us is holding the remote. As Walter White is screaming at us, we’re not even sure where to find the remote.

Finally, we realize it’s buried under the fat white cat lying between us on the couch. He’s leaned an elbow on the button and cranked up the TV to maximum volume.

This is not unusual. Ned, our 13-year-old handicapped cat, has a tendency to take control of the remote.

Since we got the dog, we’ve spoiled the cat by letting him lie on the couch in the evenings while we watch our allotted hour of television. We’re watching “NCIS,” he flips it to an infomercial. At a crucial vampire-on-vampire fight scene in “True Blood,” he turns the television off completely.

One of these days, we’ll learn to always move the remote to a table, where it cannot be swallowed by fur and lolling cat gut.

Either that, or he’ll eventually figure out which channel is Food Network.

Weather Journal

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