I have a routine in the morning. Hit snooze alarm untold number of times, then pee, then feed Milo. You'd think after three years of never deviating from this routine, that Milo would understand this. Alas, it is not so. Every morning, Milo becomes so verklempt because he thinks he is starving within an inch of his life.
It starts with the snooze button. A normal cat would understand this is part of the routine and accept it. Milo is not a normal cat. To him, the hitting of the snooze button is a sign of the apocalypse and therefore, his impending doom via starvation. Milo's mind doesn't seem to think past the current moment and remember that hitting the snooze comes first, food later. All he knows is that I am not actively getting out of bed and putting food in his bowl RIGHT THIS SECOND so clearly, I am choosing to make him starve to death and I will never ever ever ever ever feed him again and OMG!!11!1!eleventy!! He chooses to express this distress by sitting on my bedside table and leaning within inches of my face and meowing. When this doesn't work, he paws at my face, claws extended. When that doesn't work, he proceeds to pace around my body, working himself up into phase two.
Phase two is where Milo is so completely emaciated that he can hardly function. Phase two is always initiated by my choice to pee first, feed second. This choice is the breaking point for Milo. When I finally sit up in bed, Milo thinks his meowing, pawing, and pacing has worked and "ALLELUIA! She will feed me!" He leaps off the bed, runs into the kitchen, jumps on the counter, and leaps on top of the fridge, where his holy grail (food) lies. Then, he turns around, to let me know where his food is and *gasp* I'm not there. This is where my cat's puny little head implodes. His world ends and he longer understands anything. He forgets how to jump, how to meow, and that he is a cat.
Somehow, through the haze of confusion, he comes and finds me on the toilet and proceeds to let me know how distraught he is. He starts by sitting in front of me and attempting to meow. I say attempting, because at this stage, he can't. He has himself convinced he is so weak, he can't meow properly. He opens his mouth and little creaky sounds that resemble nothing of a meow, come out. Sometimes, his mouth opens and closes and no sound comes out. When my cold, cold heart doesn't respond to this, he gets even more desperate (as if that is even possible). He reaches a paw out (claws extended) and attempts to hook my hand and bring it to him to pet him. "If only you would reassure me that this fate that is about to befall me will be okay. Never forget me." Alas, I have no room in my sleepy, sleepy heart to console him. His next step in his attempt to demonstrate how he is weakening (by the moment) with hunger is to attempt to jump on the counter, to give himself a higher vantage point in order to emulate superiority. This attempt always ends in failure as Milo jumps into the counter, further dislodging precious brain cells, before he finally makes it on top of the counter.
The entire time I'm in the bathroom, Milo has to keep up a constant barrage of creaking and pawing, lest I forget for a second that feeding him is the most important thing in the world. This cat believes he is actively dying and will go down fighting every step of the way.
Finally, I get around to feeding him, and he runs in between my feet, tripping me all the way to the kitchen and getting distressed when I slow down and fall because he tripped me again. Then, he eats, and the few brain cells left in his head rejoice and re-energize and hopefully restore some form of temporary sanity in Milo's bleak life.
