I've finally figured out why writers have cats. They supply blog entry stories.
I think the cats are trying to apologize for playing tag across the bed, and my body, at 3AM today, and the following hissing-spitting-scratching-growling-under-the-bed-for-twenty-minutes cat fight that followed, because when they started up again this evening I went over to them, glowered, and told them to knock it off. And they did. Not only that, but an hour later, I found Loki's treasured "pelt" on my pillow. (It's a 6X10 inch abandoned knitting project from one of the nieces. Considering the amount of cat spit on it, I don't blame her for abandoning it - any more than you can blame me for using tongs to move it off my pillow.) After that, Skitters dropped a small stuffed animal at my feet and did that weird meowing that always follows one of her kills. I praised her for her mighty hunting skills, admired the toy, and promised to cherish it. She went away but came back a little later and mewled some more. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she isn't looking for praise. Maybe that's her way of saying, "Cook it up already, bitch. I'm waiting." And maybe Loki's seen the Godfather and thinks he's leaving the equivalent of a horse head in my bed. "Tell us to knock it off, will she? I'll show her who she should fear." Hmmm. Skitters just walked to the couch, looked over her shoulder to make sure I was watching, and clawed the crap out of the upholstery. I think maybe I should ask her how she'd like her stuffed toy cooked.