30. TURN BACK THE CLOCKS?

Dinner is late, Annabelle informed me.

We’re starving, Thatch added.

I had just changed all the clocks in the apartment, so as far as I was concerned, we were now an hour earlier.

Sorry, babies, I told them. Dinner will be in another hour.

Another hour? Thatch moaned. I’m starving! He fell on the floor in a mock faint.

Why? Annabelle asked.

Well, you see, I explained, tomorrow is the daylight savings time change and we reset our clocks for the next several months. Your dinner time will still be 3:45, only now it will be at 4:45.

You sound like Gertrude Stein, Annabelle snapped at me. Why are you doing this to us?

Because, my love, tomorrow you will be hounding me for breakfast at 5:30 instead of 6:30, and I’m helping you adjust.

We always have breakfast at 6:30, Thatch said, rising from his mock faint.

Yes, Thatch, but tomorrow the old 6:30 will be 5:30. The new 6:30 will be the old 7:30.

I do not like this at all, Annabelle stated. I am so confused. Is this a new Trump executive order?

I just want some food, Thatch moaned.

In an hour, I said, when it’s 3:45.

Feed us, Seymour! they both yelled at me.

I ignored their complaints for the next hour before I fed them.  They remained angry with me for the rest of the night.  Because I was so prepared for the time change, I was smugly pleased with myself.

This whole time change has screwed up my life, Annabelle moaned.

And so November 5 began.  It began with Thatch climbing all over my recumbent form around 5:30. I ignored him until Annabelle jumped onto the bed and the two of them danced all over me and sang this little ditty:

      We really love our breakfast

       And Fancy Feast is swell

       So get your body moving,

       Say Thatch and Annabelle!

At 6:15, I yelled, Enough is enough! and two giggling kittens jumped off me and ran out of the room. As I dressed, I heard them calling from the bathroom, Feed us, Seymour!

By 6:30 they were gobbling down Chunk Chicken, and I returned to bed. And don’t you dare bother me, I warned them. I could be speaking Esperanto for all they care. They don’t listen.

When I decided that I had to get out of bed and face whatever fresh hell the day offered, it was 8:15. Annabelle watched me dress. Thatch was chatting with the pigeons on the fire escape.

You know, she said, we usually make our patrol an hour ago.

Well, I’m sorry, Missy. I overslept. I was awakened too early by the Feline Follies. Let me get my coffee and check my email. Then I’ll clean the litter box and we’ll patrol the building.

You are putting me off my schedule.

Annabelle, what schedule? I feed you, have my coffee, check my email, clean the litter, we make our patrol, and then you sleep until noon while I pick up your messes, and we watch the soaps. And it’s Sunday. We do not watch the soaps on Sunday. You read your Backstage and learn a new musical with Thatch.

I think we should turn the clocks the other way and pretend this never happened.

I could do that, I said, but nobody else will.

Well, when I’m a star and on the talk shows, this will be my campaign issue.

Thatch joined us at the computer table as Annabelle said, I’m glad the election is this week. Then I will not have to listen to all those “Vote for me” ads ever again. They ruin my concentration on the soaps.

How could they? Thatch asked her. The soaps repeat what’s been going on in every other line.

I won’t be getting all those “give me your money for my campaign” emails, I said.

Maybe I should run for office? Annabelle suggested. Then she rolled over to groom her left front paw.

Those birds hate this time change, Thatch told us. Is it time for our snack?

No, I told him, you get your snack at noon. It’s barely 9:00. I have to walk to the market for your treat.

Then they both began a litany of complaints about the time change, and I wished I had some Bristol Irish Cream for my coffee, A lot of it.

Annabelle finished her grooming and sat up. This time change is ruining my life, she moaned.

Well, I said, you can’t fight City Hall.

I don’t want to fight City Hall, she said. I want to run it.

©2018, Larry Moore