Good morning!

7:23 a.m.

Dawn.

Nice and warm in bed, dreaming I'm at a huge party or event or something festive like that, with people I really like and who really like me. Good dream! Lots of rich colors and a rock n roll soundtrack.

Then....

Four 100# spears jab my belly and chest! I hear a "humph hrrrrhmph" and feel air wafting on my face. I'm being attacked! By a five-pound, 19 years-old feline. It's breakfast time. She can put an amazing amount of psi into each of those tiny paws when she wants to. She's got her nose rightnexttomine, gazing intently into my face, waiting for my eyes to open. Then the screaming starts (hers, not mine). I wish I could get it recorded for you. It's truly horrible. It sounds like she's being tortured or has a limb stuck in a trap. She's loud, I mean eardrum crushing loud. And she expresses the most heart-rending despair! GEEZ!

I wait an hour, hoping she'll give up or that Mr. Handsome will get up and feed the kitties, letting me sleep in.

It's good to have hope, even when you know it's hopeless. He believes it's my own fault that Cleo does this, so I should be the one to suffer the consequences. He believes it's not his problem and certainly not his responsibility. He believes it's my own fault that I can never sleep in and he shouldn't have to get up early to feed them. I see his point, but I suspect he believes I deserve to be punished by the early morning harangue. He and I have very different beliefs.