I couldn’t get out of bed yesterday morning. No, more accurately, I couldn’t wake up. Groggy, you know?
I got out of bed and fed the cats. That's Annabelle (above) being sleepy. Then I grabbed Maggie and crawled into the bed in the guest bedroom and fell back to sleep. I heard Bryan go into the kitchen and say, “Is the coffee made? No,” and so I hollered, “I didn’t realize I was your personal maid.” HA. Dammit, he thought I was downstairs and wouldn’t hear that crap. I hear everything. I have ears like a bat. Except that I don’t think bats actually have ears. Besides, I expect life in the morning to be peaceful on all accounts, including the cats.
I think they know they aren’t supposed to fight or throw up in the morning, but does that stop them? Of course not, it encourages them. They vomit, they argue, they chase each other aggressively while hissing or even sometimes screaming and I have one cat continuously throwing himself down the stairs. Now that’s a long story, but it’s true. He hurls himself down the steps routinely. Yes, like the lead lemming.
Do you know what else I don’t like in the morning besides catty spousal comments? Complaining, arguing and the smell of eggs. Luckily, it’s a rare day I have to deal with any of that except from the cats. Bonus: the cats can’t cook. But Roscoe will often stretch himself up to a standing position and put his front paws on the edge of the counter as if to help.
But really he’s just got a hollow leg. I may tease him about helping out in the kitchen, but it’s just denial of his feline eating disorder and allergy to most meat. Yes, a carnivore allergic to meat. Hardly seems fair, huh?
Anyway, I need the house to be peaceful in the morning. Is that too much to ask?