This morning I opted not to hop out of bed when the alarm clock first beeped. Instead, I chose to roll over and blindly smack the blessed snooze bar. Apparently this was a mistake. When the alarm beeped seven minutes later, it seemed that my fan club was waiting for me.
Grayson, a 15-year-old lab-beagle, was at the head of the bed, her snout mere inches from my hand .
Nike, our male tuxedo cat, rested on my chest.
As I withdrew my had from Grayson’s hot and stinky dog breath, Nike chose to begin licking my nose with his sandpaper-like tongue. Uggh. I had traded dog-breath for cat-breath. How exactly does a cat who has never eaten a bite of fish in his life have breath that smells like fish? It’s a complete mystery to me. I pushed Nike off, and sat up to find Charlotte, our female tuxedo cat, sitting on the floor by Grayson, meowing.
See…Charlotte’s meow…it’s the same no matter what. Have you ever seen the movie “Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs”? Charlotte IS the monkey, Steve–except she isn’t voice by Neil Patrick Harris, which might make it more tolerable. Every meow says pretty much the same thing in the same way: food, love, food.
So that’s how I woke up this morning–to my semi-circle of love, my adoring fan club.
I’ve got to get out more.