Dear Diary,
It is 5:55 am. According to all semblance of logic and reason left in this hell hole, no one in the house should be awake right now, laying rigid in bed, eyeballs staring blindly through the dark up at the ceiling. And yet, everyone is, because I am being a complete and utter cock.
Somewhere in the window of five to twenty minutes, I pause my haunting yet deafening growling and run into the kitchen with my fat swinging between my thighs, when I hear someone rip off her covers and storm out of her room. She trips over me as I slam up against her shins, grabs me by the scruff of my neck, draws my pig face close to hers, and whispers threats and insults into my ear while I salivate and tremble with anticipation. When she thinks she has made her point, she releases me, reaches up for my bag of food pellets, and sets it down in front of my disassembled robotic feeder while I let loose a veritable chorus of gluttonous meowing. The food sits there, unopened, while she crouches at my level and stares into my black, beady eyes. If I start to meow, or advance towards the food, she shoves me away. It is an exercise in restraint that I must endure if I am to taste the sweet, delicious tang of those early morning food pellets.
Eventually she pours the food into the bowl, and I thrust my head in the way so that pellets cascade down over my jelly-roll neck and all over the floor. She slings me across the room with her foot, and repeats as necessary until I can sit patiently while she pours the food.
I eat feverishly, barely tasting the food and finishing in under one minute. I'm shouting again practically before she has slammed the food bag back into the cupboard. When she is back in bed, I am flying through the hallway between their rooms, letting forth horrendous, soul-shaking growls, bellowing to the world for scarcely any reason at all. I deliver every inflection known to man, including but not limited to: despair, incense, outrage, bewilderment, boredom, inquiry, pity, idle hostility, impatience, demention, defeat, sudden realization, salutation, rage, personal tragedy, retardation, personal vendetta, and battle cry - all at no fewer than 120 decibels.
At some point I crash into the litter box area, and either emit the most foul smell ever known to human olfactory consciousness, or stomp around in the litter until I am sufficiently filthy and smelly. In either case, I then proceed to claw and rip the plastic lining of the box, digging as feverishly as I ate mere minutes ago. On the other side of the wall the sound is amplified to an extent that my care taker might (if she were not already familiar with this whole extravaganza) entertain the notion of a demolition site taking place in her kitchen, inches from her head.
When I am done with this vexing ritual, I commence again with the shouting and trampling through the halls. I like to pop into their rooms intermittently, to make sure I am being noticed and acknowledged. If I think I am being ignored for whatever reason, I try to find the most fragile object in the room and dash it upon the ground. If there is nothing fragile, I will find some vessel filled with water - a drinking glass perhaps, or some paint water - and turn in on its side so that it soaks its surrounding area. If there is no water, I will LICK ANY PLASTIC BAG IN THE VICINITY FOR AS LONG AS I AM ALLOWED.
And so, given all these factors, it should come as no surprise to me when some day soon I am restrained against my will so that a crude lightning bolt can be shaved into my side.
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