It's 3:00 a.m. My bladder informs me it can't wait another three hours. I claw my way out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. A shadowy form blocks my way--rubbing my eyes, I see that it not the ghost of Arthur, as I first thought, but Shannon, who hopefully asks me if it is time for breakfast yet. I brush past him, complete my business, and head back to bed.

5:45 a.m. I fight my way out of sleep and pad to the kitchen for my morning wake-me-up of orange juice. Shannon is sitting on the corner of the counter, waiting for me.

"Where have you been?" he nags. "I don't suppose you care that I'm starving to death."

I must interject that Shannon and I have a mature relationship, and each of us respects the mutual intelligence we share. No meowspeak for us!

I inspect Shannon's food area. A moth is doing a backstroke in his water cup, and his canned food looks a little stale. I toss the dishes into the dishwasher and get out clean ones. Shannon observes hopefully, sure that today must be the big day. I retrieve a new can of Friskies Special Diet™ Chicken, which has always been his favorite, and put a scant tablespoonful in his dish. (I learned long ago that it was wasteful to give him more than he would eat at any given time.) He sniffs it, tentatively licks a little of the juice off the edges, and looks at me expectantly. "Is that all there is?" he asks querolously.

"That's it, Buster," I reply, enjoying my moment of power. He lifts his tail and moves around to the dry food dish (Also Friskies Special Diet™), and pins me with a scornful look. The dish is half-full and looks okay to me, but I guess I'll humor him. I rattle the food bag over the dish, allow a few nuggets of food to drop it, as I make a great deal of noise with the bag, giving it the appearance of pouring more food. It always works with Bubba, but Shannon just sneers at me, "Thanks, Big Spender."

But he tucks into the dish and I go upstairs to works, satisfied that I have won this particular battle.

A couple of hours later, I decide to exchange my orange juice for my first glass of Diet Coke™ ; going down the stairs, I almost trip over--guess who? Yep, he's ready for a little snack. We go through the rattle-the-bag-stir-the-canned-food routine, and I go back to work, leaving a despondent cat behind me.

This scenario is repeated ever two hours or so, until a little before dinner time, when I am relaxing on our patio, having a snack of party mix with my pre-dinner martini, as I catch up on the day's news. Like a shot, Shannon is on the table and head-first into the bag of party mix. He crunches 3 or 4 of the spicy cheese crackers and pretzels before I can wrestle the bag away from him. I mean, this stuff is murder even on humans' digestive systems! But he looks so crestfallen, that I pour a few out on the table for him, and he crunches away with relish.

We go thorough the benevolent-offering, disappointed snubbing routine one more time before bed, and I resolve that, tomorrow, I'm going to buy some boneless chicken, liver and rice, cook it up and grind it for him, as a special treat.

Yeah, I've got a heart of nails, eh?