Tuesday, April 8, 2008


Usually, one of the four cats wake me up somewhere between 11 a.m. and noon. I shoo them away and try to go back to bed. Sometimes I succeed. Other times I fail. I think they want to make sure I'm not dead. Or maybe they're hungry.

One of the cats wants me to open the window so she can look out at the backyard. I don't know what she finds so interesting in a coupla busted lawn chairs, overgrown plants and some weeds, but she loves it. It's a pain crawling across my California king and stretching my left arm to push the window up, but I suppose this is all part of being a responsible pet owner.

Other times our youngest cat runs in and leaps atop my stomach to rub his wet nose into my face. I consider myself lucky whenever he chooses this method because the alternative is much worse. When he's feeling frisky, he enters the room and walks to the edge of the bed, then somehow wiggles his fat body back and forth to get underneath the covers. From there it's a game of biting me in my toes, my feet or my legs. This method never fails. There's nothing like being sound asleep, the sun shining through the bedroom window and all of a sudden a blast of pain shoots through your body. I love coffee and require a few cups in the morning, but the java industry's got nothing on a cat bite to get me moving. Once I'm up, he gives me this look that lets me know he thinks he's the boss. I'd love to argue this point with him, but there are a few problems. First, he doesn't speak English and I don't speak cat. Second, I scoop his nasty poops from his boxes, fill his water bowls and feed him. It's pretty difficult to justify who's in control when you're waiting hand and foot on a four-legged feline.

Less often than the aforementioned is our fat black cat. She has absolutely no volume control on her voice. She's loud and that's that. Once or twice a week she comes in, anchors her fat belly near my feet and starts screaming until I get up. Her goal? Butt scratches. Sometimes she wants her head rubbed, but nine times out of ten it's her butt.

The fourth cat should have been named Boo Radley because he never comes out for me, which means he couldn't care less about whether or not I'm sleeping. In fact, I'd say he's the only cat who prefers when I'm out cold. He thinks my girlfriend is his real mom and has room in his heart for her and her only. At night in bed he rubs against me, but that's so he can get to her. I don't appreciate his bedtime-only love for me, but I have to take what I'm given. At least he doesn't wake me up. For that I thank him.

Tommorrow is Wednesday. The girlfriend doesn't work and gets up much eariler than I do. That means the cats will wake with her and probably leave me alone. She loves Wednesdays because she gets to sleep in. Me too.

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