The existential despair of being a cat in our basement

I know I promised I wouldn't be the all cats, all the time channel, but there's not much else to write about, unless you want to hear about the compelling drama of cleaning toilets or washing window screens or doing research on different CRM systems for small businesses or (and this was actually fun) taking a long walk wearing only three layers! three! and poking at the leaves clogging the sewer drains so the snow that was being converted to water because it was warmer than 10 degrees could actually flow down the drain and I don't think you're that interested in that, even though that's what I did yesterday.

So. It's back to the cats. I told you that Shirley, who I think has been grievously mis-named, has found her voice. Her name should be Demon child. Or Beelzebub. Or Rooster. She is one ticked-off chick. I mentioned that if SH had to choose between the cats and me, I'd find myself on the streets without a goodbye, he's that much of a cat person.


Maybe we should get Rooster a harmonica to go with those blues. Although she really doesn't have a blues voice -- it's more of a punk voice -- angry and screeching. No melody in it at all.

But you know how much he treasures his beauty sleep. One of the great conflicts in our relationship, even greater than our political and religious differences, is our sleep difference. I am an early to bed, early to rise person. Had I my druthers, I would be asleep by nine and up by seven. SH? He'd work until nine, then go out until two, then sleep until ten.

He might be singing a different tune about the cats (even though "Shirley," the "Sweet one," is the only one who does this) tomorrow when he is awakened by her screeching at the crack of dawn.