Why we just can't get along

See that sweetly innocent look?
Meet The Cat Bastet.

Sometimes known as "the black one."

She hates me.

No. Really.

Hates me with the heat of a thousand suns. (or maybe I'm just projecting because I'm the one who hates her? Hmm. . . food for thought.)

Anyway, she's really high-strung. And a drama queen. And she hisses at me. Often. Hisses!! Who does that anymore?

And then when the rest of the family is around she acts as if she didn't do anything.

But I'm on to her.

She likes to sleep at Eric's feet. On his side of the bed. We have an invisible line drawn and she doesn't dare to cross it. Because she knows I'm on to her. She knows. I know she knows.

In the morning she is the one who wakes Eric up. (Notice I didn't say "us" because she knows I'd probably drop-kick her right across the room if she tried to wake me, but that's not important right now.)

What follows is a re-enactment in a hilarious (if you're a cat owner) minute and twenty-six seconds.

The Cat Bastet waking my husband up every single morning:

She's not fooling me one bit.