My cats and I have a routine. I wake up every morning to Bubba alternatly sitting on my feet or standing on my chest purring his fish-breath into my face, depending on how many times I’ve hit the snooze button that morning. If MysteryMan hasn’t stayed over and gotten up sometime before the sun to feed them, I also find Neo-cat sprawled on my bed somewhere within petting distance… otherwise he is staking his claim on the ever expanding laundry mountain in my closet.

Except for yesterday when I woke up oddly unattended, even after repeatedly shouting “Cats!” and whistling for them. (Don’t laugh, I trained them to come when I whistle… okay, which usually only works only when the time I whistle happens to coinside with a time they feel like getting petted.)

Finally I dragged my ass out of bed, and happened to glance into the spare bedroom, to find this:
Perfect black cat silhouettes framing the window. The picture is fuzzy because, hey, not awake yet and the camera was on manual foucs. Welcome to my life before 7:30AM.

There is something I love about all-black animals… they remind me of three-dimensional shadows of themselves. Which sometimes, is exactly the way I feel myself.

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