So this morning, a few hours short on sleep
(stupid late-night TV movies) I get up. Cats are howling at me.
Somewhere in the night they emptied whatever was left in their food
bowl and a class-A freak out has ensued.
I should mention that my husband gets up a good 90 minutes ahead of me, to have a little "me time" as he gets ready for work. And because I think 6 a.m. is ungodly and while 7:30 is not much better, it'll have to do. Apparently, at 6 a.m. the cat food shortage was tolerable, but somewhere between 7:28 and 7:30 the situation deteriorated into crisis material.
Guess they know which side their bread is buttered on, huh?
So zombie Nytquill shuffles out, says something resembling "Gurfle muff," and feeds the cats. Goes to sit in the living room, check her email, have tea. DH leaves for work. 30 seconds later...
*huu...hurh...hurk hurk hurk hoooork!*
God. I just love the smell of cat vomit in the morning, don't you?
She ate too fast, obviously fearful that we were never going to feed her again, because we let her go a whole PART of the night with no food in the dish! What cruelty! Also, apparently cats can't chew kibble very well. Yeah.
She probably wasn't even hungry until she realized the bowl was empty. They're like that. The other one of the two, actually, will petition me for food when they run out, reminding me (insistently) that she is dying of starvation at an incredible rate, a marvel of modern medical science. High metabolism, I guess. Except when I fill the bowl she has only a passing interest in it - "Oh, I wasn't hungry! I was just, y'know, gonna be hungry later and everything, and I didn't want to bother you then because you might be busy or something...What, dying? Who's dying? Me, no, I'm in perfect health, thanks for asking. I don't know what you're talking about, seriously."
Actually I was totally expecting her to be the one to eat herself sick; that's the way it usually goes around here. She's sort of a low-watt bulb. Or maybe she's reincarnating an ancient Roman at a party. Those who are about to hurl salu-- salhuu...hurh...hurk... OH GODDAMMIT!
An auspicious start to the day, I'd say. Mondays. Bleeeegh. I'm gonna go do my yoga now; I think the carpet where she puked is dry enough.
While I'm at it, I would just LOVE it if the temperature in my apartment could drop below 25-26C (78 F). Something it hasn't done ONCE in the past two or three weeks. Just...y'know, anytime. That would be great.
I should mention that my husband gets up a good 90 minutes ahead of me, to have a little "me time" as he gets ready for work. And because I think 6 a.m. is ungodly and while 7:30 is not much better, it'll have to do. Apparently, at 6 a.m. the cat food shortage was tolerable, but somewhere between 7:28 and 7:30 the situation deteriorated into crisis material.
Guess they know which side their bread is buttered on, huh?
So zombie Nytquill shuffles out, says something resembling "Gurfle muff," and feeds the cats. Goes to sit in the living room, check her email, have tea. DH leaves for work. 30 seconds later...
*huu...hurh...hurk hurk hurk hoooork!*
God. I just love the smell of cat vomit in the morning, don't you?
She ate too fast, obviously fearful that we were never going to feed her again, because we let her go a whole PART of the night with no food in the dish! What cruelty! Also, apparently cats can't chew kibble very well. Yeah.
She probably wasn't even hungry until she realized the bowl was empty. They're like that. The other one of the two, actually, will petition me for food when they run out, reminding me (insistently) that she is dying of starvation at an incredible rate, a marvel of modern medical science. High metabolism, I guess. Except when I fill the bowl she has only a passing interest in it - "Oh, I wasn't hungry! I was just, y'know, gonna be hungry later and everything, and I didn't want to bother you then because you might be busy or something...What, dying? Who's dying? Me, no, I'm in perfect health, thanks for asking. I don't know what you're talking about, seriously."
Actually I was totally expecting her to be the one to eat herself sick; that's the way it usually goes around here. She's sort of a low-watt bulb. Or maybe she's reincarnating an ancient Roman at a party. Those who are about to hurl salu-- salhuu...hurh...hurk... OH GODDAMMIT!
An auspicious start to the day, I'd say. Mondays. Bleeeegh. I'm gonna go do my yoga now; I think the carpet where she puked is dry enough.
While I'm at it, I would just LOVE it if the temperature in my apartment could drop below 25-26C (78 F). Something it hasn't done ONCE in the past two or three weeks. Just...y'know, anytime. That would be great.
