June 22nd, 2010



 I love my cats. I really do. 

I love that they enjoy my company so much, they want to curl up with me at night and snuggle (although I suspect Spenser is really after the cool air from the air-conditioning). 

I do not love it when Feargal decides in the wee hours of the morning that somebody (that'd be me) should get up and play with him -- or feed him, more likely. And so he starts poking me. In the face. And tickling me with his whiskers. And purring very loudly. And poking me in the eye (gently, but still). 

Sigh. Wretched creature.