Two weeks ago Loki got a big sister. He seemed so lonely while we were off conquering Vega-5 and enslaving its native sentients as makers of rocking leather boots, so we carefully evaluated the prime specimen for the job and found this lovely freckled redhead:

We named her Ripley for her no-nonsense attitude and the fact that Loki does nothing but chase her like a facehugger. (He also seems to think she is a trampoline, which is as fallacious as it is problematic.) I’m hoping it’s just a rough adjustment phase, but Loki needs to get over his insane jealousy pronto and make with the friendship so that I can take many adorable photos of the two of them plotting to overthrow me together and divide the universe amongst themselves.

She is in every way the exact opposite of Loki. She is graceful and acrobatic, able to land on the finest of ledges and the most precarious of bookcases. Also unlike Loki, who can do a flying leap into a sliding glass door, rebound halfway across the room and trot off unharmed, she seems to have gotten into medical trouble first by swallowing something that scratched up her esophagus and landed her the grand prize of an emergency trip to the vet this morning. She wouldn’t eat or drink yesterday, probably because it hurt to swallow, but I wouldn’t have known that because she didn’t have the decency to get up from her comatose state and let me know what was wrong.

This morning she was given stomach acid neutralizing medicine and an IV of hydrating fluid-goo that made her back puff up like a camel’s hump and caused her to leak for a few hours if she moved around too quickly. Grody.

But I haven’t gotten to the best part. She can’t eat normal cat food because the chunks might cause problems with her sore throat and whatever horrible thing Loki convinced her to swallow in an effort to bump her off and reclaim the apartment as his own. Until she’s well, she needs pureed baby food. But she also needs incentive to eat, as eating isn’t something she’s enthusiastic to do. The doctor said I would probably have to warm it up and feed her by hand. If I was very lucky, she’d eat on her own once I get her started.

And, dear reader, I did it. That’s right. No fewer than five times today yours truly, evil robot and conqueror of worlds, was down on her knees serving a sick cat baby food with her fingers. Dude.

I’d like to submit to the Evil Robots Union that this behavior should not get me banned from our upcoming Evil Robot Swim Party and Barbecue. I count Ripley as a valuable minion to my cause, and feigning kindness to poor helpless kittehs is an excellent tool of deception to fool my meatbag neighbors into thinking I’m one of them. Really. That’s why I’m doing it. It’s not because she’s absolutely adorable and I want her to feel better. Like, right now.