The Crinkle & Wrinkle Saga – Doubletrouble_sphynx

Have I mentioned that Sphynx cats can be incredibly demanding when they want something? Surely I have. If not—consider this your official warning.

And while everyone loves to say dog owners start to resemble their dogs (or vice versa), I really hope the same doesn’t apply to cat owners—because if I’m anything like my Sphynx cats… well, let’s just say that raises some very awkward questions.

Take Wrinkle, for example. She’s not just any cat. She’s a high-maintenance, melodramatic, attention-seeking diva with an agenda. And when she wants love—very specific love—you’d better be ready.

It starts with a meow. Not just any meow, mind you. This one is perfectly pitched, persistent, and clearly designed to bypass logic and hit you right in the guilt zone. If you make eye contact? Game over. She knows she’s got you.

And then begins her ritual. She turns around, tail held proudly like a royal banner, and walks away… but slowly. Teasingly. A head-turning glance here, a little chirp there, just to make sure you’re still following. You are, of course.

Suddenly, she darts. Straight to the bedroom, where she leaps onto the bed and strikes her pose. Rear up, front down, tail quivering in the air. Ladies and gentlemen, she is ready… for the booty slaps.

Yes. You read that right.

This cat lives for booty slaps. She enters a state of absolute euphoria, purring like a motorbike and letting out little trills that only fuel the madness. And the sound—if you’ve ever smacked a Sphynx on the butt (gently, lovingly, enthusiastically)—you know the sound. A solid, satisfying THWAP. The harder the better, apparently.

I often wonder what the neighbors must think. There I am, behind closed windows, loudly baby-talking my wrinkly cat while slapping her behind like she just won a race. If Pedro Pascal ever stumbled across this scene—well, I’d like to think he’d appreciate the emotional commitment. Maybe even take it as a sign.

But Wrinkle doesn’t care. She’s in the zone. She’d go on for hours if I let her. At some point, I have to break the spell. “That’s enough, madam,” I say, as I peel myself away from her expectant eyes. The betrayal she expresses is Oscar-worthy.

With dramatic flair, she watches me leave, her tail still in the air, processing the end of our shared moment.

And who’s patiently waiting in the next room? Crinkle. My sweet, mild-mannered girl who just wants to play fetch like a normal weirdo. Compared to her sister’s sensual soap opera, a quiet game of Mr. Lobster is suddenly very refreshing.

Sphynx cats, man. They don’t just steal your heart. They demand belly rubs, initiate emotional blackmail, and develop full-on rituals for their guilty pleasures. And I, the humble human, am just along for the ride.