Pardon the yawning, but I am Le Tired.
It should really came as no surprise to anyone that the Yowler decided 3 in the morning was the perfect time to start his latest sleep-deprivation project with me as his subject.
Good god, why is it always me?
He started off with the yowling. In the ear. With the hot, stinky breath of doom™. I may have called him something nasty in Spanish.
He upped the ante; yowling while simultaneously stomping his fat furry feet across my chest (guaranteed to leave bruises — Goths with Docs have nothing on him) and batting at my face.
The usual defensive manoeuvres didn’t work, and within 15 minutes I was admitting defeat and getting up to dispense kibble. It took two dispensations of kibble and 1 1/2 hours of sheer agony before I got the hint (via repetitions of yowling, climbing, batting, stinky breath of doom™) that kibble wasn’t going to cut it.
I considered faking my own death.
Knowing him, it wouldn’t make a difference, so I dragged myself out of bed, muttered something uncomplimentary about Ironhead’s ability to sleep through HIS cat’s obvious issues (yes, when he’s being ornery, the Yowler is his. He’s mine when he’s adorable) and shuffled off to retrieve the wet food from the fridge.
Oh dear gawd it was going to be at least 20 minutes before I could feed him.
There was only one thing to do.
Snaking another container from the fridge, I carefully pried the lid off and pulled out some of it’s contents.
The cat shark reared, snapped and took away his prey.
Bacon. It gives a girl reprieve.
my moo kitty only eats the crunchy stuff, so he always has that in his dish. thank god.