I am an emaciated wreck. When Annie is gone, I am completely neglected. The tall two-legged does not take care of me. It's not as if he doesn't know what to do. I tell him every morning. I am polite, of course. As soon as I see that he is awake, I begin singing to him to remind him I am hungry. It is not my fault that he is a light sleeper, and I mistake (on occasion) his rolling over as an indication of wakefulness. Then, as he stumbles to the kitchen in the dark to make and procure a cup of that vile black drink he likes, he gets mad at me. I am just trying to help. He apparently doesn't know the way very well, so I gently prod and herd him towards my dish. Sometimes he goes the wrong way, and I end up underneath his feet. Clutz. Granted, I chuckle a little when he falls against a chair.

The coffee pot is located directly over my dish. I look at him, I look at the dish, I look at him, I look at the dish. You get the idea. All the while, I am communicating my need for canned food. I am dying. Seriously, I am not sure if I can survive until Annie takes over this responsibility. If I had thumbs, I'd take care of it myself, but I don't. I have to trust in those that do. He seems to think I don't need canned food all the time to sustain me. He points to the large bowl of dried cat food sitting balefully next to the empty dish that should contained canned food. Then he wonders why in my depleted state, I jumped off the window sill, slipped on the new nightstand and scratched it with my rear claws. The nerve.

Please, Annie come home so we can restart the routine of me having a full belly and healthy body...

Oh yeah, the cat box needs to be cleaned...

Lilo the Cat Withering