Breakfast with my Cats

In our old place, Molly (the orange cat) loved joining me for breakfast.  It was a charming start to each day, but it was usually counter-acted by Desmond (the evil, tuxedo cat) making noise, breaking something, or using the bathroom on the living room floor.

“Is that freshly ground?  I like mine fresh.  kthnxbai.”

Each morning, she would sit at the table with me if there was a chair, or, at least, she would camp out under my chair and spend the morning rubbing against my shins.  Meanwhile, Desmond sat on a shoe insole that had I left on the floor and and would get angry when I got close:

He’s the strangest cat I’ve ever known, and this was his tradition for weeks.  No, I’m not some slob who leaves stuff on the floor for that long!  I just wanted to see how long Desmond would defend his precious sole.

We’re still living amidst boxes, so no new traditions have developed in the current apartment.  Maybe they will involve Desmond taking a vow of silence.

Or, maybe all this time he’s been saying “mea culpa,” over and over.

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