Living alone for a whole week is beginning to seem like a penance. Five a.m. on the dot, Keiko will start walking back and forth on whatever body part happens to be sticking out the most, purring like an outboard motor. She wants me to get up and have breakfast with her. Why on earth this cat can't eat her cat kibble all by herself like every other feline, I'll never know. Try to ignore her and she just plops down on my head, still purring. It's hell when she's so happy that early. I pad down the hall to the cat bowl with her and sit, bleary-eyed, while Keiko attacks her food as though it might leap out of the bowl and dash off. Kibble goes everywhere.
Natasha oozes in, all silent condemnation of this early morning bonhomie. She glares at me, then Keiko, then sits down and has a bath with her leg rudely stuck out. Dixie lurches around, unable to sleep if the rest of us are up. Much water is spilled as she drinks noisily in the kitchen. Keiko leaps down, and Natasha deigns to have some chow but not before giving Keiko a warning swipe to keep her in her place. Keiko ignores her and busily uses the cat box, spraying gravel somewhat precipitously in her enthusiasm.
Now Dixie's noisily cleaning herself. I can't sleep so I turn on the computer and dink around reading diaries and Usenet. The birds are having a birdfest in the backyard so everyone wants to go outside. They mew (Natasha) or walk back and forth in front of the monitor (Keiko) or sigh gustily (Dixie, whose brown eyes are irresistable anyway). They go out in the backyard and I go back to bed. The routine never varies. The pets adore it and I am their slave. I don't mind, really, but if John's out of town, there's no one to take cafe shift at the food bowl or let the dog outside to hunt up her rawhide bones. I'm tired of getting up at 5. I'm a night person.
As soon as I figure out what I did wrong in my last life, I'll tell you. Now let me sleep.
