Do cats feel gratitude. Or rather, do they feel grateful? Catitude? Catful? I don’t know.

I just know my cat bugs the shit out of me in the morning. It doesn’t matter what time. Even if I wake up at 4:45 a.m. (Why? Because I’m a fool and won’t listen to the “6-8 hours a day” sleep prescription given as a way to stay healthy—that might make me rested but it don’t write the books…)

So my cat will follow me into the kitchen when I get my coffee. I know what he wants: FOOD. Yes.

And best not to let him eat the leftover bits of dry chunky shit food in his bowl from the night before. Some mixture of shrimp and chicken and beef and lord knows what. It’s not one of the more healthier options available. You know, the ones with no grains or preservatives—the ones that cost double what this one costs. Yes, I’m giving away my cat secrets. I’m not a very loving pet owner. I feed my cat some crappy dry food. No actually, it’s not that bad, but not the Rolls Royce of dry food.

But I do give him a Cadillac wet food. More expensive. Grain-free. Some blue can. Something without “filler” and “additives” and “preservatives”–like my healthy deodorant.

And he eats that.

Then I have open the dining room window next to his food so he can watch Bird TV.

And then I sneak into my room and attempt to get some focus time in before the day overtakes me with a list of tasks and other “general shit to do.”

But here comes kitty. Jim. That’s his name. Here he comes. He’s in his 25% awake mode. I read somewhere cats sleep roughly 75% of the day. Or something like that. A RIDICOULOUS amount of time to be slacking off while I’m running around fixing faucets; putting air in my tires; getting food; cooking food; sweeping floors; making money; paying bills and trying to get in a few hours of shitty news a night.

Meanwhile, the cat is dead asleep from roughly 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. A full time slacker cat job.

But in the morning, right when I’m trying to be the Michelangelo of comedy, here comes kitty. Crying. Wanting attention. Trying to scratch my eyes out.

They have a few different moods: loving; pet me daddy; blank stare at nothing (or ghosts); and then the let’s fight like hell MMA style and let me sink my teeth into your forearm.

And then…nothing…out…in a cat coma….Catitude. Grateful for a faux leather chair, some shitty food in his belly and the morning sun rising.

He’s really out for that long. 9-5. Then he’s up. He wants dinner. He plays a little—then out again.

I don’t know if I could do it.

I’d be dreaming of lists of things to do.

Goals to crush.

Dreams to manifest.

But not Jim.

He knows another day is upon us.

And another bowl of tuna delight or salmon surprise or chunky chicken in gravy.

Nasty shit, really.