I can hear Alacrity...

For those of you who don’t know Alacrity, he’s my cat. I got him a lifetime ago – well, very nearly a lifetime for cats, at least – in 1995! He was once a cute, little white puffball. Now, he’s an old man with an attitude.

Every morning, he sits downstairs and meows and meows. He’s the feline equivalent of the old man who sits on his porch and yells at kids, “Get off my lawn!” And I’m the human equivalent of the old man who yells at his cat to shut up… because I yell at my cat to shut up. Doesn’t work, though. He keeps on howling.

We’ve ruled out any health issues. He eats and runs and scampers about most of the rest of the day… but once the wee small hours of the morning hit: Meow! Meow! Meow! (How cool would a dyslexic cat be? “Mewo! Mewo! Mewo!”)

I can’t get too mad at Alacrity. I know he’s old and just a pain in the ass. He’s outlived Bandoo and Othello – yeah, our house was a fun place during their passing… But I sure wish I knew what he was saying.

Vicky thinks he wakes up in the middle of the night, after all the people and the other animals have gone upstairs and to bed, and his meowing is his way of asking, “Where is everybody? Where’d everybody go?” It’s the feline equivalent of a “senior moment”…

Yeah. That fits.