Feline Prime Time

[I will occasionally interrupt examinations of the endemic isolation of our citizens to consider observations about truly important things such as cats and springtime.]

Monday morning my cats were crazier than usual. It was warm, the windows were open and the air reverberated with birdsong.

My house is currently surrounded by, in addition to flourishing flora, three resident bird families and numerous transient songsters.

Outside there was a feathery frenzy of feeding-- parent birds rushing back and forth with delectable and essential morsels for insatiable appetites. And, as if spurred by their example, squirrels rushed up and down trees and over roofs and across fences.

Herbie and Guinness ran from window to window, following in synchronized movements the activity swirling around us. They perched on the back window, their heads turning in unison, first left to watch the squirrels then right to watch the birds. Then back again. Then they raced to the front of the house to see the southern whirls of scampers and flights. Every movement identical, every muscle focused on the show, they were simultaneous.

This was, apparently, feline prime time.

As always, I fixed their breakfast before mine. As always, I clinked their ceramic bowls to signal that the food was ready. But they paid no attention. There was just too much to see.

It was only after I had eaten and was cleaning up that they stomped into the kitchen looking slightly aggrieved.

Where was breakfast?

Right where it should be, silly creatures. Glad you enjoyed the show. I certainly enjoyed watching your enjoyment.

Later, when I went upstairs to make the bed, I found them both curled and sleeping amid the jumbled sheets. They did not move when I entered the room. They did not move for hours. They were suffering, I am sure, from complete emotional exhaustion.