As much as I hate to admit it, cats are chronic fibbers.

(If my cats ever read that preceding sentence they would probably explode from outrage. I think we can all agree that could create housekeeping problems of epic proportions so it now becomes even more important than ever to keep my cats illiterate.)

Note to self: Do Not Let Cats Sign Up For Hooked On Phonics.

They fib about many things. You let them in and minutes later they are begging to go out again with pleading expressions that say, "No, really, it was HOURS ago that I was outside. Please, if I don't get some fresh air, I will expire almost immediately from some obscure lung disease. You MUST let me out."

Then you let them out and minutes later they're sitting on a window ledge with their noses pressed piteously against the glass. "You MUST let me in. Do you have any idea how bad the weather is out here? I promise, I won't use the kitty litter. No. Really. I did my business outside."

So, fool that I am, I open the window and let the cat in. It positively scampers into the house, bolts down the stairs and then I hear the familiar sound of kitty litter being used.

Here we are, proud owners of 25 hectares of forest and surrounded by literally hundreds upon hundreds of acres of forest, and our cats will actually run INTO the house to use the kitty litter.

FINE.

Now we come to The Big Fib, the one they are always trying to pull off, the "He Forgot To Give Us The Wonderful Food" fib.

The cats have an endlessly replenished bowl of kibble and all the water they need, but every morning as a treat we give them some canned cat food.

This is the spousal unit's job and has been since 1978, the year I was pregnant with our daughter and had the most horrendous morning sickness imaginable for months and months. Just cracking open a can of cat food would start a pukefest.

(The more acute of my three loyal readers might have noticed that it's been close to a quarter century since I've been pregnant and in theory I could take back the chore of feeding the cats. Shhhhhhhhh. The spousal unit doesn't need to know that, eh?)

On the mornings when Paul and I eat breakfast together, the cats know that I have Witnessed The Distribution of the Wonderful Food and there is no point in trying out the fib. However, if he gets up early and leaves before I wake up, they figure it's open season.

This morning it was open season.

I wandered down to the kitchen with a case of bed head severe enough to alarm even the cats. The milk I splashed into my teacup curdled the minute the tea hit it, meaning it had gone sour overnight. So there I was, disoriented, the restorative effects of caffeine denied me.

The cats spotted their moment.

Zoe began the attack. She stood by the Plate For The Wonderful Food and gave it a meaningful look. It was empty and clean. The question was--was it empty and clean because they had licked it clean, or was it empty and clean because, well, no Wonderful Food had graced it this morning?

She mewed piteously. Zubby joined her. In a few seconds they had mimed out yearning, hunger, abandonment, suffering, and the cruel, cruel injustices that the world has visited upon cats for millenia.

They closed their performance with a rousing chorus to the effect that They Had Been Gypped of The Wonderful Food and on Thanksgiving morning no less!

I looked outside and saw the spousal unit in the yard. I opened a window. "Did you give the cats the canned food this morning? They're really yelling at me."

He rolled his eyes. It was clear he had.

I closed the window. I gave the cats The Look. They knew they were busted. There was only one way to save face.

Immediately Zubby began to scamper across the kitchen floor towards the porch. "Hey, you misunderstood me. I wasn't talking about The Wonderful Food. Oh, no, I was taking about expiring from some obscure lung disease. You MUST let me out. Now. Right this very second."

So there I was, tired, half-asleep and hungry because I hadn't eaten any breakfast myself yet. I could feel a call of nature directing me towards the bathroom. And there was this small fuzzy creature yelling at me to set all my priorities aside and meet his.

You want to know the really sad part?

I did.

--Marn

P.S.--The International Cavorting Day Hall of Fame is open. You, too, could be part of an institution that's just like the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame except that it doesn't involve music, Ohio, talent or an actual building.

Otherwise, they are remarkably alike.

Celebrate the notion that we should all have one day in our lives when we are free to celebrate a jolt of spontaneous happiness.

Post a button or post a link to the cavorting site and become enshrined! See yourself right up there on the screen!

Make a rubbing of your name!

Oh. Wait. Maybe that last bit wouldn't work. Nevermind that part, 'kay?

Today there is no inductee into the hall of fame. The world is just that much further from random, senseless jolts of happiness. *Sigh*.

The first ten cavorters who entered the Hall of Fame I have dubbed The Mothers And Fathers of Cavorting. Don't worry, this does not involve messy blood tests, paternity cases OR child support. However, each time I update, I will feature one of them.

And now, can I have a drum-roll, please, for Today's Cavorting 'Rental Unit: