It's disconcerting to be outmaneuvered by a skinny beige cat. And yet Reynaldo beats me, and beats me down, every time.
Lately he has decided to awaken me in the middle of the night -- usually between 2 and 3 am. He eats my hair. He meows. He pulls on my lower lip with his paw. He knocks everything off my dresser. He does whatever he can to wake me up.
He wants me to feed and play with him. If I do this so he'll leave me alone, he will do it again the next night. And the next. Trust me, I know.
He is not hungry. I always find the meager remnants of his dinner in his bowl when I give him breakfast. He just would prefer a cat treat or canned food to his kibble. And he's not lonely. He has two other cats and a box of toys to amuse him while I sleep. He doesn't need me. He just wants me.
Last night we went through our little routine, with him misbehaving and me yelling, and finally I just tossed him out of the bedroom and closed him -- and the other two cats -- out. And, unintentionally, away from the litter box that is tucked out of sight in the back of my walk-in closet.
So this morning when I woke up, I found catshit on my kitchen floor. Gee, thanks! And cat urine on one of my handbags -- that'll teach me to forget to hang it on the chair -- and on my bathmat.
Maybe now that Reynaldo is older (he just turned 8), his dietary needs have changed and he truly isn't getting enough of the food he likes. Or maybe he's just fucking willful. At any rate, I'm going to give him a midnight snack before I retire. Not Joey -- though he's sweet, he's already too chunky and I worry about the impact his weight has on his health. But Miss Thing herself, Charlotte, can partake in a dollop of canned food too, if she'd like.
I've got to come up with something. We can't go on like this!
