I feed my cats twice a day. Breakfast is as far past 4:00 AM as I can hold out. Dinner is the very minute I get home at night or as far past 2:00 PM as I can hold out if I'm home. In the evening, they get treats. These events comprise the Three Crises of every day. Until each crisis is met and resolved in turn, the day is turmoil. The trouble with having three crises is that cats can't count.
I showed great moral fiber this morning by holding out until 5:00 AM. After the feeding, it was straight back to bed. Crisis 1 resolved. In the afternoon, I avoided the 2:00 PM feeding anxiety crisis by taking a nap shut up in my bedroom. I got up and feed the munchkins at about 3:30. Crisis 2 was behind me. Crisis 3 was resolved casually at about 6:45 when the cats got treats.
Now, the cats gather around me and stare. The look on Grendel's face resembles that of a waiter who's just been stiffed for a tip. Grendel is a stomach with four legs. 21 pounds of pure appetite. He and his two girlfriends, Rhiannon and Maebh, seem to think that they are due something from the kitchen. I'm not sure if the resolution of Crisis 3 was lost on them, but every time I walk downstairs, they run to the kitchen and look up where the treats jar is.
I have no choice but to endure their morale outrage at not giving them more treats tonight. I won't be bullied. I will, however, sleep with one eye open. They furballs can't count, but they know that revenge is a dish best served when Dave is fast asleep.
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