There's ample evidence indicating that I haven't been the alpha being in this (feline-controlled?) house for quite some time. Last night, when I walked past the kitty perch, Edmund, in his usual place, batted round, innocent eyes at me. He rolled from his side to his back, presenting his belly and all four paws in the air.

"Want petting, hm?"

Grunt. (Yes, my cat communicates in Grunt. It requires less effort than actual meowing.)

"You're aware that you're a disgustingly rotten spectacle of a cat, right?"

Purr. (Feline smile.)

Example #1: water. To my left is a glass of water from our filtered-water tap. To my right is Edmund, who is currently yelling his chubby round head off because I'm not sharing 'my' water with him. I have explained to Mr. Squeaky that, contrary to popular feline belief, he will not be allowed to stick his head into 'my' glass to have a nice long drink of 'my' water.

It makes sense when you think about it; if there's enough difference between tap and filtered water that Jeff and I can discriminate between them, the cats, with their more acute senses of smell and taste, should be able to distinguish them as well. It makes sense, true, but it's still a little disconcerting when you look away from your water glass for a moment or two only to find Mssr. Fang-the-larger stalking your water glass. Or, if you wait a minute or two longer, Fang-the-larger will attempt to fit his head inside the glass - sometimes with far greater success than you'd expect.

Desperate, they are.

Any question I had of my true place in the world came at three a.m., when, after a particularly lovely dream, I decided I wanted to use more of the bed than the maximum allowed by feline law. My foot landed against a warm, purring, but oddly immovable object. I pushed with my toes; it pushed back. I tried to slide my feet underneath it, to dislodge it. It stopped purring, but for a few moments, it didn't move either. Emboldened, I pushed a bit more, trying to create a pocket of room for my feet.

By the time I fully awakened, I realized that my feet had no place to go on the bed. I sat up, squinting to see without my glasses, and glared at the lumps of cat sprawled across the foot of the bed. I had been tag-teamed. While Edmund had congealed into a molten, purring kittylump, Tenzing had sprawled out to his full length and was stretching across the majority of the bed.

"Damn cat."

Grunt. (From the depths of the kittylump. I did not merit the opening of feline eyes, much less movement.)

"Give me my bed back, you wankers."

Tenzing stretched and stared, limbs deceptively loose, daring me to try to move him.

Anyone who has ever tried to pick up a cat whose current mindset is a steely determination to avoid being picked up knows just how fruitless such attempts are. A cat who does not want to be moved is well-nigh unmovable; like mercury, whatever you cannot hold will simply allow gravity to take its course, oozing out of your hands and back down to where it originally was.

To pick up a fully-extended twelve-pound cat requires at least one more hand than I currently possess.

I poked both cats until they were both well, thoroughly, and unwillingly awakened, then admitted defeat and turned diagonally on the bed, letting my feet stick out from under the covers. Five minutes later, Edmund was snuggled in my curve of my arm and Tenzing draped over my legs. Both purred uproariously, as if to say, "Good human" - and, like that, we slept.