The Cat Who Could Tell Time


As I lay at the foot of the warm, cozy bed, a familiar scenario has come to a head.

 

“Well, look at the time. I believe that’s a five. Food in my bowl is not far behind.”

 

I will chew on this wire as I so often conspire, to wake daddy up – “Don’t sleep!” I interrupt.

 

I will paw daddy’s face ‘til his slumber’s erased. I’ll meow ‘til he gives in, because I’m a prick.

 

“Fill ‘er up,” I demand, my bowl to its brim. “I am so hungry and this cat waits for no man.”

 

“Rise, rise!” Our fates are entwined. The clock has struck five, eating is my life.

 

Ah, daddy stirs and looks at the wall. “It’s two in the morning, you little bastard,” he retorts.

 

“A two or a five. So I’m not good at reading signs. But since you’re awake, feed me. I’m hungry. Don’t let me die.”

 

“Alright,” he concedes. Alright, indeed. He’s not the dumbest of all humans, it’s the futility he sees.

 

“Here you go, now leave me alone,” he gives me that line every day at this time. Oh, we’ll do this again in three hours at five.

 

“Thank you, daddy,” I fake loose a coo. I am cat. I am evil. When I want foodies, he will say no but he will always lose.  


All Rights Reserved (c) May 2020 John J. Vinacci

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