We have two cats who, for weather-related reasons, live on our front stoop. Blackie, the smaller one, has a store-bought bed that's just the right size for her to curl up in. Blossom, who is big, prefers a large cardboard box with its cushy cushion and a blanket draped to protect her from the wind if there is any.
Comfort-wise, this setup is hard to beat if you are a cat. As to décor, the arrangement lacks couth. But it's too late to convince these creatures of habit to live in the toolshed. So they're fixtures at the only other available spot that's safe from rain and snow.
He who feeds our cats lives in another section of the house. To get to the main part, he has to cross the aforementioned stoop. When the cats think they're hungry, they let him know the minute his door opens. If they are genuinely hungry, a cacophony ensues (more appropriately spelled, in this instance, cat-cophony). Their beds are directly below the windows in my office. So I hear their every meow.
The other thing Blackie and Blossom mainly complain about is the weather. In their furry minds, the hand that feeds them obviously controls the rest of the world. So when temperatures soar or dip beyond their comfort zone, he gets an earful. Ditto when the weather gets their paws wet.
A couple of nights ago a weather forecaster showed a chart verifying that February 2019 is the wettest since such records have been kept for Tennessee. Our cats do not appreciate chart-topping statistics. They are as disgruntled as dry cats can get.
One soggy morning, the moment the hand-that-feed's door opened, meows split the air. Blackie and Blossom sounded more like a horde of cats than two. "Enough! Stop this idiocy!" they yelled. "We have vermin to catch, birds to stalk, fencerows to investigate, sunny spots to seek out. We demand justice!"
In my dry cubby on the other side of the wall, I added a heart-felt fist-pump to their decree.