Before having kids, my cat was my baby. She slept for hours on my lap, kept us company at the foot of the bed, enjoyed treats more often than she should have, and could stretch out wherever she pleased. She was our little spoiled rotten princess.
Then she became a big sister. At first, it wasn’t too bad. This squirmy little baby barely knew she existed. Until he started crawling around, discovered blinking eyes at the same eye level, and screamed.
My cat hasn’t been the same since. She probably resents us for having not one, but two screaming things who think she’s a toy. Needless to say, she spends a great deal of time hiding. I don’t blame her. Her siblings can become earsplittingly loud.
But because she’s almost always hiding, I often call for her just to make sure she didn’t get locked in the closet.
Oh, you should see her! She comes running out, meowing, full of hope. Her tail is high and her eyes are big as she comes darting straight at me. I know what she wants, what she hopes for. She wants a nice warm lap, or a pet, or a snuggle, or, even better, a treat.
She must get annoyed with me when I interrupt her sleep and have nothing more to offer than a quick pet because the kids can and will descend on her.
My poor baby, I’m sorry. You must be so irritated with me.