Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. This cat's gonna be the death of me.
Shelby and I have a routine. Every morning, around 6:30, she either comes up her steps of the loft bed and softly taps me, or meows to wake me up. Sometimes she lets me sleep. Sometimes she stays downstairs and just meows annoyingly until I get up.
In any case, I get up, we go to the bathroom, and then I let her out into the hallway to see what's what. She's there for maybe 30 seconds, and I let her back in. She takes her pill, and I start my morning; check email, turn on the news, etc. She goes into the bathroom and goes to sleep. This is what we do.
Shelby's not too intuitive on what's a weekend day and what's a weekday. Usually, I don't mind, because I get up at the same time every day. Today, however, she had a bee in her bonnet and was meowing to beat the band (I have suddenly transformed into the writing of 1950, apparently). She meowed, she pawed me, she wouldn't let up. I looked at the clock. 5:00 AM. On Sunday. This was not okay.
We fought back and forth. She went and coughed up a hairball. She came back. I thought maybe there was a fire. She's not a rooster, she's Lassie. She'll save my life. "What is it, girl?" I finally went down the ladder at 6:00. What was the emergency? She wanted to see what was what in the hallway. For 10 seconds. She wanted me to stay in the kitchen with her while she ate her breakfast and didn't take her pill. She is now resting comfortably on the floor, staring at me. "What?" she says.
I could kill her, but she is so freaking cute. I'm gonna try to go back to bed. Wish me luck.
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