Emily says I need to write a book. Or two. Or three. I should emulate the lunatic in my writer's group who approaches a million words a year.
Why? Because I do my writing while sitting on my office futon, in proper self-heating cat cushion position. She's been especially appreciative lately, with lots of head butts and purring.
The vet thinks her morning tummy troubles are due to a stomach that gets sour when empty, and recommends feeding her as early as possible. The best solution would be a food dish with a timer, except Thing 1 and Thing 2 (aka Billy and Whitey) would raid it. He doesn't think changing her medicine would help, and didn't ask me to bring her in. We already know what the problem is, after all.