The pitter patter of pissed off cat feet

My parents are coming to stay with us for a long weekend, and we washed the sheets in the second bedroom to prepare for this. Cause that's just the kind of people we are. The thing is, when the second bedroom is not being occupied by guests, it is known not as the second bedroom or the guest room, but as the cat's bedroom. So it's important that after you wash the sheets, you don't let the cats back into their bedroom because they will do things like christen the clean bed with their fur and vomit. It's how they show love.

We washed the sheets on Sunday and the door to the bedroom has been closed for days now. Smokey and Emma have spent their time hovering around it, willing it to open. When I get home from work, they typically begin crying, because they are so abused. I suppose in their defense, I have shrunk their tiny world by a good 30%.

So now it's Wednesday night and Smokey is doing this thing where he meows very pointedly at me, like he has important information to convey. And then he walks a few steps away and turns, as if asking me to follow. The first time he did this, I thought he was a genius. He was clearly trying to tell me something. Maybe Emma was in trouble! Maybe there was an intruder! Maybe he had scratched a poem in the cat litter!

But after following him in several circles around the living room and kitchen, I pretty much realized he's not a genius. At least not in a communicative or linear way.

Although he is something of an artiste when it comes to cat-bedroom hairballs. He's saving them up right now, I can tell.