Edmund, most of the time, is too lazy to work up the effort to squeeze out a full-fledged meow, instead settling for a meaningful glance, occasionally laced with a whiskertwitch or two. Only when he is annoyed (defined as "my brother kitty will not play with me when I bite him on the ass") does he really feel the need to actually audibly voice his opinion. Today was no exception, but even without the vocalization, I got the point.

It's been a busy medical fortnight: first the extraction of a tooth and then the banding-off of two perfectly good Fallopian tubes. During this time, I've been gone a lot, sleeping a lot, and medicated even more. The cats haven't exactly been getting their daily due of adoration and cat-scritchies, and it's beginning to show. Says the woman who is typing around the thirteen-pound cat who is perched in her lap, purring noisily and occasionally head-butting her chest when she doesn't administer enough between-paragraph petting.

Translated into Cat, this becomes "meow meow meow meow, hey, where's Mom? meow meow meow."

(It's all about their needs, as any cat owner knows.)

Anyway. So I've been gone a lot, and I think the cats are starting to get cranky. Today, I played chauffeur to a friend-of-a-friend who is visiting from out of state. What was originally intended to be a total pinch-hit for our mutual friends, who had businessy bits pop up that precluded them from executing their chauffeurly plans, ended up being quite the spiffy day with a new friend, spent over bread pudding at Tim's and marveling over the sheer jaw-dropping stupificence (like magnificence, only stupid) of Huntsville's Eggbeater Jesus landmark.

Enrika, being a cat person, eventually asked if she could come over to our house so that she could meet the brothers Fang. I apologized for the mess, which currently includes the guest bathroom's toilet sitting in the guest bathroom's tub in anticipation of tomorrow's plumber visit, and let her in.

After a good ten minutes of talking up Edmund's general skittishness, which involved an explanation of just how much damage he can do when frightened, what does the cat do?

Go right to her, of course. Purr, purr. Pet my head, ooh, rub my neck … hey, while you're at it, scratch … yeah, scratch my butt. Right there. Right at the base of my tail. Oh yeah. The cat turns around and looks at me with this blissful gaze, closes his eyes, begins purring, and then opens his eyes and stares balefully at me. I know this gaze, and it can mean only one thing: Human, you see this? You can be replaced.

I'm going to remember this. Chances are I'll shrug, give in, and pet him anyway. I'm aware that I'm rarely the dominant life-form in this relationship.

* * * * *

It looks like it may also be time to acknowledge my growing teaslutness. Want me to sit at your house for a while? Make a fresh cup of hot tea. Two packets of Splenda and a dash of half-and-half, milk, or cream, and you've guaranteed yourself approximately twenty minutes' worth of a captive audience.

Tea is a relatively new luxury for me. I've generally avoided consuming carbonated/caffeinated/sugary beverages because combining the Bone-Rattling Belch factor with Caffeine High and Sugar Levitation creates a version of me that most of you just really don't want to be around. Standard caffeinated sodas just became an evil trifecta to be avoided after I began the 12-Step Hypoglycemia Program. (Step one: admit you shouldn't have sugar, and begin active avoidance. Step two: cry about it.)

Then I realized that I could make tea as sweet as I liked using Splenda, thus erasing the sugar issue. The lack of carbonation was a bonus. As long as I kept my consumption moderate (two cups maximum, and none after mid-evening) I could generally guarantee a decent night's sleep.

I've since started buying more exotic teas at Teavana. It culminated this week in the purchase of an Earl Grey that caused Brian to mutter, "This is really strong. I think there may be pieces of some guy named Earl in here." Today, while clocking more away time from the kitties, Enrika and I had great amusement over, as we put it, "sucking down some Earl."

When you can actually make the act of drinking tea sound whorish, you have officially become a teaslut. As long as I come home and give him scritchies, though, I think Edmund will forgive my infidelity. No word yet on the general jealousness of Earl.

(P.S. - Yep, feeling better. The incision-site soreness is calming down, as is the upper-chest soreness from the gas used to inflate me like a squishy fleshy balloon during the procedure. As I hurt less, I sleep better, which does wonders for this so-called healing process. For those of you who wondered, yes, getting your tubes tied has a far, far lower suck factor than having a back molar pulled while conscious. I had them done eight days apart. I should know.)