The Kitten Contract

At 6:31 this morning, I woke up, looked at the clock, scanned the bed for cats, and made eye contact with Oscar at the foot of the bed.  I patted my shoulder, and Oscar responded by rising silently, strolling around my feet, up my right side, and joining me for our good morning snuggle.

I wasn't sure I wanted one this morning, but I made sure I asked Oscar any way.    Since Oscar has been sort of the ignored middle child lately, I wanted to be sure that he had his special time with me.

More generally, when any of our overlords keeps his part of a contract, it's important I keep mine.  

That's how, for example, the boys know they are welcome on the kitten desk pillow but not a foot closer if I have the Hiss of Doom in hand.   (The Hiss of Doom will enforce any whim; the contract is that the pillow is always safe, so they don't feel the need to flee the office.)

It's how also have we have four felines in the kitchen when we arrive home, because everybody knows that it's treat time!  (Okay, sometimes, three.   But we get four enough to trust that they all know the contract, even if someone wants to sleep through it.)

Now, if we could teach Penwiper how to snuggle as gently as Oscar in the morning ...