Wake up. It’s Caturday.

In addition to being more worthless than a bag of dicks, my cats are also surprisingly intelligent. But rather than use this unnatural intelligence to do things that would make my life easier (feed themselves, realize that the couch and their scratching post are not the same thing, piss in the litter box rather than on the bed, etc), they have made a conscious decision to use it for evil and generally just inconveniencing me and making sure I never sleep.

I have no idea how my cats have figured out the days of the week, but they sure as fuck know when it’s Saturday. And like all dickish cats, they have adopted the idea that Saturday should be spent catering to their stupid cat wishes. Saturday mornings (or ‘Caturday’ as I’ve come to call it since my cats decided to appropriate the day for themselves) typically begin at some ungodly hour with Jaegar doing this:

Beginning around 4:00 a.m., he will run across the bed at lightning speed every 2 minutes until he knows that I am awake and then he will come do this. And since it is impossible to sleep with 30 pounds of cat sitting on your stomach and kneading your chest, I will eventually get up and check his food bowl where I will find the food that I just put in there 5 fucking hours ago. After dumping out the “old” food and refilling fatass’s bowl with “fresh” food, I will be allowed to go back to bed for approximately 20 minutes (you know, just enough time to start falling back to sleep) and then this will happen:

Don’t be fooled. It’s not gratitude for the cat food. It’s like he’s using his claws to tell me: “Hey guess what? I know what day of the week it is. I know you don’t have to work today. So I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you don’t get to sleep in and that you wake up and pay attention to my fat ass. Because it’s Caturday, bitch.”

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