Oliver still sleeps in a curled-up-caterpillar-ball on my bed, and up until I caught on to the fact that he was manipulating me I would let him out in the morning at the sound of his first cry thinking that he desperately needed to go wee. But when I clumsily make it to the back door and suffer the cold morning air on my bare legs, he would casually step outside, wander along the perimeter of the patio, leisurely stretch his legs and then lie down. Like, oh, I'm sorry, were you in the middle of something? Because I just wanted to get a head start on being an asshole.
In all seriousness, Oliver is not an asshole. But some mornings, at the crack of dawn, with the -5 degree air flying up my bathrobe, I swear he has ulterior motives. This morning, I refused to throw his ball until I consumed my daily bowl of the new Banana Nut Cheerios.
No, he's not deprived, I just wanted to make myself a priority for 2.5 seconds before I went back to catering to his every whim. Play ball.
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