She Miaows

The cat miaows.

Constantly.

She miaows from on the couch in the living room.

She miaows beneath the bench.

She hops up on to the file cabinet, looks me dead in the eyes, and miaows at me.

I know what she wants.

She knows I know what she want.

I know she knows I know what she wants.

She ain’t going to get it.

Dinner time is at a set time.

The same time.

Always.

Yet as always she’ll start her campaign two hours before hand.

Miaowing.

Incessantly.

Feeding her early will do no good; she’ll just start miaowing even earlier.

Feeding her period will do no good; she’ll keep it up for at least another hour on the off-chance I might forget I’ve fed her.

So all I can do it wait until it’s time to fed her.

Her voice is annoying.

So very annoying.

Like an ice pick in the brain.

One day I’m going to do something horrible to her.

I will.

One day I’m going to take her food and give it to the dogs.

Then, in her shocked and disbelieving face I will laugh.

Oh how I will laugh.

But not today.

Today I wait until it’s her dinner time.

Then I will fed her.

The same time.

As always

All the while, she will miaow.

Miaow.

Miaow.

Miaow.

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