At this very moment there is a faint but steadily intensifying
drifting from down the hall.
The cat is thirsty, but she has discriminating tastes, and is demanding water from the faucet in the bathroom.
She's driving me crazy, and it's not just because of the water.
I've declared this the Summer of the Whining Cat.
She's constantly evolving, I've learned. Her latest adaptation is sunrise sensitivity. At the exact moment that the first of the sun's rays emerge from behind the mountains, the cat, who has, up until that point, been sleeping comfortably on my not-so-comfortable back/head/chest/arm, lets out a sudden "me-row?" and then, every three seconds, repeats the noise more and more urgently, until she is fed by a cranky me and bolts out the door.
So why do I still love that furry thing?
And why has she decided to give up the quest for water in favor of sleeping on the left side of my keyboard right now?
And why I am just typing around her?