The Problem that Has the Name Schroedinger

Schroedinger (a.k.a. Schroedie, a.k.a. The Stupid One) has been waking me up starting at 4 a.m. Who says that cats aren't decent preparation for children? He tries to be quiet, pacing up and down the length of the bed, but he just can't contain himself when my alarm goes off at 5:30 and I stick the thermometer in my mouth. He has a habit of sitting on my chest and rubbing against the thermometer. At 102 degrees, he's got to be affecting my basal readings!

And though he is stupid, he has learned that after the thermometer dings, it's alright to start purring and making noise. This morning, to wake me up, he started pawing at The Feminine Mystique that's on the floor beside my bed.

"Look, he's reading Friedan!" I said to my husband, who was half awake and therefore didn't find me humorous. "The cat's a feminist!"

Well, the cat also ran off with my bookmark, and now I don't know where I'm at. I'm taking my time with this massive tome, and I have to say it doesn't make the best bedtime reading. My husband, a history nerd and know-it-all, said, "Hey, I know how it ends. Want me to tell you?"

But that's beside the point. I need to figure this out for myself. In the meantime, the cat is demanding equal kibble for equal pets. I've created a monster!