It’s five in the morning and the cats are calling. Running around the house. Spraying their scent that smells like a piece of urine soaked wood. They cry out and chase each other. Doing unspeakable things to one another that you’d only find in a Turkish prison. I wish they’d be quiet.

They jump in bed with me. Carrying on like two criminals about to make a steal. At first they’re quiet. Then the crying begins again. What do they want? Yes, I tell them. Yes. I’ll feed you, they spring off the bed, soaring in mid-air before landing and skidding on the hardwood.

They run to the kitchen and jockey for position at the food bowl. I pour in the dry mix; one stays, the other decides he’ll wait; wait by the vent to keep his white coat warm. He keeps looking over at the gray cat to see if he’s done. He is. He has savored every bite. Whitey takes his turn. Slowly he eats too. Mr. Gray watches. He meows. Telling him to hurry. Whitey tells him to go to hell.

They are both napping now. Sleeping till dinner time. That smell of urine will not go away. It will not. They both smile as they lay there.

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