Mother-f***ing pets!

Early, early Monday morning, 3:37 AM, I wake up, and I immediately roll over, saying to myself "I am not going to do this! Nothing is accomplished by worrying!"

And remarkably, the flounce works and I fall asleep.

4:30AM: A cat is scrabbling at something somewhere, and no matter how much I shout, it doesn't stop. Get up, find Scout (he was clawing at the door trim in the bathroom).

5:00AM: Shout at the cats, again. Get up, and find Scout, clawing at the door trim in the study.

5:30AM: Feed the cats, because clearly, I'm doing something wrong, and food might fix it.

5:37AM: Leap out of bed, cursing a blue streak that hasn't been heard since the Titanic sank and find the mother-fucking god-forsaken cat (again, Scout) clawing at the wall between the bookcase and the kitchen divider cupboard.

5:38AM: Realize that my cat is experiencing some sort of diabetic / insulin shock. It's too early for his shot.

5:39AM: Crawl back into bed, holding my dear, 16-year-old Scout and swearing to every deity out there that I will be a better cat mom if he will only be OK and purr for another hour-and-a-half, until it is shot time.

6:45AM: Haul my sorry ass out of bed and go to work. Only 15 minutes late.

Fast forward to Wednesday: I stop in at the local pet supply store and pick up some kitty nail clippers. Later that evening, Scout crawls into my lap. I clip his insanely long nails. He hates it.

Later Wednesday evening: I reconsider having outside cats.