My house has become what I least expected--one that caters to THE CAT. Our little Buddygirl has taken over our and we will never be sane again. This high-maintenance little diva loves to play, and does not realize that she is supposed to sleep more and play less. Our world revolves around her, and she makes sure we know it!
When we forgot, she reminded us the other night by pouncing on the bed at 3:30a.m. "Ignore her," I mumbled. "She needs to know she can't do this." I rolled over, closed my eyes, and did not return to sleep. She followed, and tickled my face with her whiskers. I cracked open one eye, only to find her staring with intent.
I burrowed underneath my pillow to drown out her purring and waited for her to jump over me and land on Cory. "Ignore her," I muttered.
Did he? NO! He fed her! "She wouldn't stop. . . Honey, I had to do something!"
We therefore have no one to blame but ourselves. She woke us early last night, presumably for the same reason, and Cory, strong-willed as he is, held out for a half-hour before caving in to our calico terror, not feeding her until 4:30.
Tonight, I sleep with earplugs.
