A Cat's the Only Cat Who Knows Where It's At

Everyone who knows me and Mark know that we are two people who love our cats, who we refer to as our "kitty kids."

Delia is a gray tabby I adopted from the humane society and a lap cat to the point where she will go completely limp if you try to transplant her off your lap. Grover is rambunctious yellow tabby who adopted us after we rescued him from a nearby road as a kitten.

They never fail to keep us entertained, and we have a special bond with them that only somewhat resembles Mark and I melding together to form a creepy old cat lady. But our cats have one fatal flaw, and that is the fact that while they are not overweight, they are still Total. Freaking. Fatties.

It is only a minor annoyance throughout the day when they start chirping (for some reason neither of them can meow, so they just suffice to making the only weak but incessant noises they can muster) and running under my feet whenever I go within ten feet of their food bowl. We try to keep them pacified by feeding them three small meals a day, but they seem to have a huge beef with an empty food bowl, so it doesn't quiet them down for long. But like I said, we manage.

However, lately they have become used to getting fed at 7:15 a.m. when Mark and I wake up for work. Problem is, there are these things called weekends where a person supposedly gets to sleep in. Or so I have heard. Because cats don't have weekends, and for the past few Saturdays and Sundays I have woken up at 7:15 to two cats pawing me in the face and chirping at me.

Every time this happens I angrily get up and pretend like I am going to feed them, then malevolently shut them in the bathroom with their empty food bowl. But by then I am awake, so I lie in bed for a few minutes thinking about how much I hate them at that moment. Then I get up and let them out because by this point they are hurling themselves at the closed bathroom door like feline battering rams.

This past Sunday, I took it a step further and launched a verbal assault on them. It went a little something like this:

Me: "FINE! I am awake now. Are you freaking happy, you bastard cats?
Cats: *Stare up at me*
Me: "If you think I am feeding you right now, you are nuts. You need some discipline to learn that this kind of behavior is just not acceptable.
Cats: *Stare up at me*
Me: "I mean, seriously, I have two days a week that I don't have to get up at the butt crack of dawn, but do you care? NO!"
Cats: *Stare up at me*
Me: "Damn you, kitties. Damn you."

I am sure I was quite the scene, whispering as angrily as I could because Mark can sleep through anything, telling off these two cats who have no idea what I am saying and wish I would just stop making these strange noises and waving my arms around and just feed them already.

Bu they are hard to stay mad at, so usually by 9:00 all is forgiven and I have decided that we can be friends again. But I sure as hell am looking forward to a day on the weekend where I actually get to sleep in. A girl can dream, right?