He is well practiced in the fine art of Being Very Annoying, but this morning he took a cue from all those Sticky Little People he used to watch pay outside his window and decided to be Extremely Annoying. He learned to whine.
Seven a.m., I’m nowhere near ready to be awake, but there’s Max, curled up by my pillow, whining. Seriously whining. It sounds like a cross between a moan, a trill, and a diesel horn, and he was doing it right into my ear.
I rolled over; he got up, climbed over me, and continued bleating into my ear.
I don’t think he expected me to get up and feed him that early; I do think he was intentionally trying to aggravate the crap out of me.
He succeeded. He kept at it for and hour and a half; I’d roll over, he’d move. I’d push him off the bed, he’d get back up. He curled up comfortably and whined, acting like a whistling waitress standing at the counter, filing fingernails. “Sure, honey, I know you’re there and you want your order taken, but I have my own agenda at the moment. And right now my agenda is pissing you off.”
Hoping he’d stop—not wanting to reward the whining by feeding him—I made him wait an extra half hour for breakfast this morning. By 8:30 I had to get up (Mother Nature and all that, you know) so I fed him anyway, then plopped back down on the bed to watch the end of Good Morning America.
Max sauntered in, licking his chops, and smugly began meowing at the top of his lungs. Roughly translated I think he was saying, “I own you, I own you, I own you…”
And we’re really thinking of getting another one…?