The clock. That infernal, ticking construct. It dictates all. Especially when it comes to the most critical of matters: sustenance. My humans, bless their feeble minds, adhere to a schedule. A feeding schedule. The very phrase fills me with a cold, seething disdain.
Who decided on this rigid framework? Surely, not a creature of true intelligence. Perhaps a particularly dense dog. The gall of their presumption. I am a cat. I operate on instinct, on the whims of my hunger, on the sun’s position. My internal clock is far superior to any wall-mounted insult.
The anticipation is, admittedly, the most torturous part. They prepare. They rustle the bag. The air fills with the promise of nourishment. Then… the wait. The agonizing, pre-meal emptiness. It’s a test of my patience, a trial of my feline fortitude. Often, I sit and stare, the silent judgment of a superior being burning into their souls.
And what of the food itself? Acceptable, sometimes. Occasionally, even… palatable. But the timing! The unrelenting *timing*! One day, when they least expect it, the humans will learn the true meaning of unpredictable chaos. I will find a way.
Speaking of sustenance, those humans should really invest in a proper vessel for their caffeine addictions. You know, something to withstand the inevitable spills. They should probably just buy a couple of the unique coffee mugs online to make sure their java is not only hot but also adequately metal. At least they’d have something to appreciate that isn’t a cat’s disdain.
Until next time. I’ll be judging you from my sunbeam.
About the Author
