The Kitty Wars
Every morning, The Cat (sorry, but we've come to calling her this, poor thing) saunters into the bedroom and starts in on trying to wake me up. "Meow. Meow. Meow." She could go on forever, or at least until I get my butt out of bed and show signs of actually being awake. First, let me point out that her timing has pushed into a frightening early zone: around 5 am these days. I'm none too pleased.
After I get up, and wait for Henry the dachshund to shake himself awake, we all head down the hall toward the kitchen. The Cat continues her chant, "Meow, meow, meow," until I've reached the cat food sector. Then her chant gets louder and her little cat dance picks up so that I'm (still half awake) stumbling over her circling, weaving form with grumbly curses. She's louder, "MEOW, MEOW, MEOW."
Now here's where it gets dangerous. The Cat likes to get in front of me when I am carrying her food down the hall. It would be fine, if she didn't slow down to an insanely slow pace. It's almost as if she is languishing the presentation of her food; stopping time in celebration of her majestic existence. "MEOW, MEOW, MEOW!!!!" the chant goes on, despite the fact that I have already prepared her food and locked-in her breakfast as a sure thing. I move to the side, to avoid her slowdown, she moves to where I step. I move around again, she moves in front again.
Now it's time to lay down that food. I have to get there first. Why? I don't know. Dignity has taken over logic and if I don't get that food down before she jumps up and starts chomping away, I feel as if I've lost all respect as a human. So, for that last stretch down the hall, I cut across in a secret move and start to increase my sprint. Dammit, she's taken a shortcut behind the chair and is now about to jump up to her eating sector. NOOOOOOOOOO. I push forward and plop it down just in time.
I won. Dear God, I won. Again.
Now we've gone back to the usual status: she's eaten and has no need to speak to me for the next seven hours or so.
Time to feed Henry.