Ok, so what’s up?


Yeah, 530am.

Why?  Cat in the sky.

Well, cat on my pillow, almost the same thing.


Ask him.

That goofy cat.

As soon as I got up, he hopped off the pillow and stood by the door.

I should have gone back to bed.

I didn’t.

I felt guilty.

He was outside.

What if he wanted to get inside?

I prepared his breakfast.

Ok, I opened a can and scooped it into a bowl.

It looked disgusting.

Chicken Florentine with cheese and gravy?

He was waiting, an hour and a half later, at the back door.

He sniffed his Florentine and ate a few bites.

Now what?

He wants to go out.

Look, buddy, it’s Saturday.

Can we come to an agreement?

I am getting dressed, to go shopping.

I plan to stop for a few blasts on the way home.

You still want to go out?

The cat strolls into the bedroom.

He understands human talk.

He jumps on my pillow.

The king of the hill.

3 hours later, I return.

He stretches and slinks his way to the food bowl.

I open another can.

Seafood delight.

He sniffs at it, gives me the evil eye and heads for the door.

Hey, baby, it’s hot and wild out there, in the real world.

He stands at attention, muscles flexing, and slowly turns his head towards me.

Let me the QTw#%T#%@ out.

It is 95 degrees.

I see him stretched out on the deck.

Is that a smile I see on his face?

I join him and last 10 minutes, turning to him, before I head indoors,  to ask him just one question:

What’s with the fur coat in 95 degree weather?

He opens one eye, giving me the look that cats give when they are in control.

He knows that I don’t own him.

He owns me.

And if you don’t believe it, just come up to my house, at 530am on a Saturday and see for yourself.







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