I guess the only sure thing you can say about cats is, "There is nothing sure about them." In a previous article I blathered on about my Shannon, who loves me without reservation. Well...the visitation of The Flu from Hell this week has taught me a number of lessons about the fealty of my beloveds. One of Murphy's Laws is that if you are going to be struck by a life-threatening-but-not-enough-to-take-you-to-the- emergency-room-condition, it will happen on a 3-day holiday weekend.

This nasty bug blindsided me on Sunday with a fever that peaked at, then hovered at 103, for three days, with all the accompanying symptoms. Did my little band of ingrates gather at my side to offer catly felicitations? Pffft! Only in their quest for food, dear reader. I am usually an early riser, and the first thing I see when I exit my bedroom is Shannon and Arthur sitting like The American Gothic couple on the end of the kitchen counter closest to me. I can judge the amount of time I've over-spent in the sack by their proximity to my door.

Little Arthur leads the vanguard and greets me with loud cries of starvation, while Shannon sits pathetically exactly 3 feet behind her. This week Arthur has actually ventured inside my bedroom door, where she caterwauls until I weakly raise my head from the pillow. It's not that they are starving--these two are a monster of my own making.

They play food games with me. Today they scorn the flavor they loved yesterday. We stocked up on Chicken and Tuna in gravy because Shannon gobbled it and asked for more. Then he tired of it, and I finally lost the battle of the wills when he refused to eat for an entire day. I shudder when I think of the waste of can after can I've scraped down the disposal because his highness refused to eat it. He will eat 2 or 3 nibbles from a freshly opened can then walk away. I put the covered dish in the refrigerator, then when he tells me he's hungry a half-hour or so later, he turns up his royal nose at my offerings.

I fixed his goose, though. This week I've been too weak to even think about eating, much less pandering to those ingrates. He, on the other hand, gives me withering looks and plaintive cries, of "Why do you hate me?" Nothing lasts forever, though, and I'm sure I'll be brought back into the fold as soon as I resume the non-stop feed routine. Ever wonder what it feels like to be at the bottom of the food chain? Ask me!