It's a never ending battle between myself and the two humans. I love them both, but bless them, they are not very smart. The British One usually gets up first. He seems to have a morning routine of sitting in one of my many sleeping chairs and looking at a glowing box. His fingers dance around a flat black board (which for some reason I am not allowed to walk on, but do anyway) and he clicks on something he calls a mouse. I know what a mouse is, and that little plastic thing doesn't qualify.
As decorum suggests, I entered the room to greet him. This is his cue to get up and follow me to the kitchen for breakfast, but he rarely does. I cannot tell you how many times I have stood in the doorway asking to be followed to the kitchen. I'm gentle at first, but as the minutes pass I must resort to loud demands and even sleeve tugging, which is quite demeaning, to say the least.
Even the dreaded sleeve tugging doesn't always work. He insists that I "go tell Mummy." Normally I would do it, because she is rather an old softie and gives in to my demands. Sometimes it's almost as though she understands me, but I know she's not clever enough so it must be my excellent pursuasive skills and handsome tail.
Recently, however, I have been loathe to go into the bedroom to wake her and give her kitchen suggestions because she has been feeling poorly. She went away a few weeks ago and was gone overnight. When she came home she had a strange apparatus attached and I wasn't allowed to lay on her lap. She has been home ever since, which is odd because before she went away overnight she was the one getting up early and driving away for nine hours, five days a week.
But I digress. If the British One won't budge, I reluctantly venture into the bedroom to give Softie breakfast suggestions. Today I was fortunate, because she was already awake, reading, and cheerfully invited me up onto the bed. It's easy for me to climb on the bed now because the pair of them put a kitty-sized stepstool at the foot of it. I'm a very handsome fellow and in no time she was stroking and cuddling me and listening to my breakfast fantasies. It's quite easy to get her into the kitchen.
After breakfast is served--which decorum suggests is never even sniffed at once it is placed before me--the sliding door to the deck is supposed to open and I am supposed to go outside to do my daily routine. Softie and I often argue about the opening of the door because she is not clever enough to remember that it is supposed to be opened after breakfast. How she cannot remember something as easy as this simply proves my theory that she is not very bright. Since today is drizzly, the humans have conspired against letting me go outside.
Let the battle commence!