So Not Cute

I hope you're not fooled by this sweet domestic scene. This critter is not sweet but a four-legged, fur-shedding, allergy-inducing, feline Agent of Terror. Because I can't breathe effectively when I'm in the room with her, I've taken to closing the bedroom door at night. Not to be outdone, she puts her Master's Degree in Fine Arts, Drama, to work daily at (and I'm not kidding) 5:59 a.m.

I'll be sleeping peacefully, dreaming of pleasant things (i.e., nothing cat-related), when the show begins. I hear her fling herself at my door, can picture her standing on her hind legs, front paws scratching furiously all the while she's wailing at the top of her lungs. I lie there imagining what she's trying to say: hurry! the house is on fire! Or perhaps: help, help, get up now, help me, there's a mouse in my food.

Not to be out-foxed by a cat, I continue to lie there and wait for the show to end so she doesn't think that she CAN control my life. When the show is over, and only then, do I venture out - immediately in to the washroom. Then I follow her down the hall to see what Ms. Drama Queen wants to show me. What follows is this: she goes to her bowl and starts to eat, purring all the while. I say, good cat, and go back to bed but not back to sleep.