It is Sunday morning.
The Lord’s Day (for those who think so).
It is a day of rest.
I have finished my grading. The term has ended, students have graduated, and I don’t have anything scheduled for the day except sleep and laundry (and perhaps some music or a little light reading).
It is gray, cold, and damp outside (and is therefore ideal Sleeping-In Weather).
Why, by all that’s holy, do you two furry little bastards still have to wake up at 6AM?
You don’t want to go out in the yuck (not for long, anyway). You don’t want to walk. You don’t actually seem to want to be awake and bustling about. You want to eat, but that’s your default state. There is never a time when you do not want to eat. I think you eat in your dreams, in which you should have been deeply involved this morning instead of fussing about.
And yet, nonetheless, you were stomping on my head and whining at 6AM sharp, ready to rumble, and I dutifully slithered out of bed to tend to your pressing canine needs.
FURRY LITTLE BASTARDS!
I still love you, but I’m going the hell back to bed now. And so are you.