It's routine.

Every morning she gets a few tarter control treats. She looks forward to this part of her day like she looks forward to every part of her day that involves food: with unparalleled excitement. Her excitement is go great that she carries on in the mornings until I get out of bed to dispense the treats.

When we first adopted Sophie, Nick and I made an agreement that he would deal with the litter box and I would deal with the food. Essentially, we divided the cat—where I take care of the front half, he takes care of the back. Still, I think he got the better end of the deal because she's never thrown her body at him to demand that he empty her litter box NOW. The insistent begging is the most obnoxious behavior that Sophie has.

So, the same scene plays this morning. I get up and trudge downstairs and notice the bag of treats on the floor. "Odd," I thought to myself. I wasn't sure how the bag got down there. I've had the fan in the living room on high for the last several days, so maybe it blew the bag from its hiding place behind the picture frames on the fireplace. My irritation grew as I stepped closer.

I had flashbacks of the bajillions of crime dramas I have watched on television, where the star detective sees someone dead on the street. They don't have anything obviously wrong with them (besides the whole not breathing thing)…until the detective turns the body over and all of the truly gruesome wounds are visible. I turned the bag over.

She had ravaged the foil bag in three different places, eating almost all the contents.

And what was I angry at? It wasn't her gluttonous behavior or that she plowed through a package of expensive treats over the course of a few hours. I was angry that she had a belly full (I would even say "bursting") with treats, but she still had to put on a scene until I got up to give her more those last few in the bag.

Brat.