I Think I Understand Britney a Little Better Now

I'm not certain who or what to blame - insane cats, menopause, Spring fever - but lately, I'm easily annoyed by the critters that live with us. In fact, I have to remind myself - and them - that they live with us, not the other way around. Still, it feels lately like I am under siege, and I've just started to understand what is happening.

MY PETS ARE TURNING INTO PAPARAZZI!

Or should I say "Petperazzi"? Lately, no matter where I go in the house, or what I do, the entourage follows. I am constantly pursued by the click and patter of nails and paws as they follow me from room to room, looking for whatever tidbits I may cast their way - like a TMZ addict. If I'm trying to cook, there they are, underfoot, in the sink, on the counter. I close the door and they paw at it like Liz Smith. If I'm trying to read, they mewl like Ted Casablanca. I throw something away and they are at the bin like a National Enquirer stringer.

LEAVE ME ALONE FOR GOD'S SAKE, WILL YOU?

The worse thing is, they just don't seem to care. It's like this, I swear:

They don't care if they walk across tender parts while you're trying to read. They don't care if you're trying to negotiate the steps to the basement with an armload of groceries. Just like Britney, if they make you fall, they are there to witness and report about it all at the same time.

HELP ME!

I feel like running away, but where? If I go outside, there's Chester, clicking along behind me, beside me, in front of me, dancing around me like I'm Lindsey Lohan on a shopping expo in Manhattan.

I MUST ESCAPE!

But how? I'm trapped. I'm as dependent upon them as they are on me. We feed each other like junkies on a road trip. I can't escape. The clicking, the scraping, the pawing, the whimpering; it haunts my dreams as well as my waking hours. The horror. The horror! Poor Britney. Poor Lindsey. If only you knew that I know what you are going through! Oh, I know. I know!