Eat Dirt

If Enchilada thought I was going to be an angelic puppy who was going to do everything she said, she had another thing coming. To paraphrase Mae West, when I'm good, I'm good, but when I'm bad, I'm better.

I'm no angel

It so happens that I thoroughly enjoy finding the next available potted plant and eating delicious dirt from it, and spreading it all over the rug, if possible.
If the pot is low, I may even climb in and dig a hole, because, why not?
In my lair in Greenwich Village, I happen to have two big beautiful potted plants that provide endless hours of happy entertainment for me, especially when no one is paying me any mind. This will remind them to play with me when I demand it. So what if it is all the time? That's what they're there for.
To my chagrin, I have noticed that every time I resort to the plants, Enchilada almost has a heart attack, followed by histrionic threats to put me up for adoption at Pet Smart. Brooms and vacuums come out. I am told "Petra, NO!" in a supposedly authoritarian tone and I am even sent to solitary confinement in my travel bag for a while (about 3 minutes, while the owners decompose with guilt and I patiently bide my time). However, Enchilada devised this ingenious method to prevent my forays into the potted plants:

The Fortress of Solitude

Keep out!

They are running out of chairs to sit on. He he he.