Diary of a Mad Cat

This is what appears before me when the door to the mud room is accidentally latched downstairs, restricting access to Gracie-Cat's food supply and her cat box (her food must be available at all times). This, of course, is after I have spent hours frantically transcribing countless medical progress reports during nap time and have gone between ignoring the ear-piercing feline screams from downstairs and hissing obscenities of my own back at her, trying not to wake Erik. If I am having an extraordinarily bad day, shoes are sometimes thrown in her general direction as the doctor I am listening to stops talking and takes a breath. If there is one thing you should know about medical transcriptionists, we tend to continue typing through anything to make a buck, including bladder fullness/incontinence, starvation, and raging fire. If the door is truly shut and she is not crying wolf, the hoarse meowing subsequently comes from beneath my chair. If I continue to ignore her and keep typing, she will sit atop my desk and stare at me until I throw my hands up in the air and respond.

She looks less than amused.