Get a Job, Cats.
It all started one morning when the cats woke us up at 4am with a caterwauling cry and a paw applied (clawlessly but none too gently) to that spot on my throat that is some kind of off-switch humans have built into our airway for some reason.
“Food!” They cried, “our dishes are eeempty!!! Only the non-gourmet kibble is left! We are starving and can’t possibly eat this cheap stuff. We demand that our dishes be filled to the brim with gourmet food or you’ll never have a good night’s sleep again!”
At least, I assume that’s how all the meows should be translated. I don’t know for sure, Languages weren’t my major.
“This is crazy,” I choked,
“Get the heck* off my neck and let me sleep!” I pushed one cat off the bed and turned over.
“You want gourmet food, you get a job!” Mumbled Fraser, and a lightbulb went on over my head.
After I stopped the cats from playing with the light switch, and shut them out of the bedroom, I had an idea. Maybe Fraser was right, maybe it was time for the cats to start pulling their weight.
Thus begins our grand adventure: Earn your keep, cats.
*I might not have said heck