My boys are growing up. Their personalities are finally developed and ever present, for better or for worse.

When Grayson was a kitten we thought we’d go crazy. Windsprints over our heads at 2am, etc. When Monty arrived we realized we’d had it “good” with Baby Gray. Man oh man he was tireless. It probably didn’t help that we brought him home when we were packing up the transient apartment to move to the condo. No no, Monty never knew The Big House with it’s retahdid amount of square footage and it’s carpeted speedway where a cat could really get traction.

Some months later, Grayson has mellowed. He no longer needs to eat his entire breakfast or dinner in one sitting. He’s taken to sleeping on top of the fridge or the back of the couch most nights, coming to the bedroom only in the predawn and an hour before the alarm hours to make needle laden biscuits on my neck and drool on me.

Monty on the other hand, is a passive, laid back hippie cat. He sleeps between The Mc and I as a furry, living, mewing “cockblock”, and stays on the edge of the bed claiming innocence (but is clearly an accessory) to Grayson as he disrupts my slumbers.

With the whirring of the fan and it’s inevitable tumbleweeds of fur comes a new adventure for both boys: the flipping and playing of pillow tags (presumably not removed in accordance with the law) in the wind. They’re fascinated and frightened, and downright delightful reality TV in my very own loft.

I never thought I’d care for cats the way I do for my loyal, sometimessnugglysometimesaloof boys…but I do.

They are my babies, my furry little mewing wish they’d learn to shit in the toilet or at least wipe their feet babies.

High five!

A few snaps while I’m here, along with happy happy holiday wishes for those of you who haven’t given up on me yet and still come back…

Personally, I think he’s doing “Thriller” in his wee kitten head.

The photography class I’m taking is from 6p-8p, which means busting out of work, making a bee-line to pick Beth up, getting to class, listening to my stomach growl starting at 7, and whispering to said partner in crime “I’m famished”. Dinner after class to rehash what we’ve learned that night and talk about plans for practicing new said skills. Home around 10/10:30 for a shower, a little computing and sleep around 11:30.

That had less to do with the point of my story and more to do with me being SO FREAKING TIRED for the last four weeks and being frustrated that so many other parts of my life are suffering because of it. OTOH, I love the class, get to spend time with B and am distracted enough/have no energy to devote to worrying about selling The Big House.

So last night after Greek yum yums with B & her oily bohunk, a drive home in crooked rain and a quick scalding shower, I fell into bed. No puter, no reading, no knitting. Grayson hopped in when he saw me spoon The Supremely Unconscious Mc, promptly inserting himself between us.

Everything else went as it normally does – Little Dude started “making biscuits” on my neck at 4am, so I flopped my legs over the side of the bed, scooped him up, walked to the hall, put him down next to his sister and closed the door…sleepwalking back to bed.

At 6:30 (late) I woke up to more of his kneading and clanging of The Mc unpacking the dishwasher. My coffee hadn’t been delivered so I stumbled downstairs to a somewhat amusing “Hi, I’m The Mc…have we met?” theatrical performance. When that was over I asked “why are both bedroom doors open?”

We have French doors on the bedroom, the right side of which is usually closed and held in place by a D shaped sliding lock at the top of the door. When I got up, they were both open.

“The cats broke in” he says. “I heard Amber doing her usual scratching, and the next thing I knew both doors were open and Grayson was on my head. You don’t remember that?”

Nope.

That Amber…she’s a beast. And this? Possibly the crappiest story of all time.