"6 a.m. Thanksgiving morning. I'm woken up by 'plink, plink, sliiiiiide; plink, plink, sliiiiiiide.' I stumble out of bed in my myopic state to track down the source, and I encounter two blurs of fur playing kitty hockey with a button that used to be on my pants. I pick up the button and admonish Bert and Maddy: 'Shhhhh. It's too early for a button.' As I settle back into bed, I think to myself, 'Hey, that could be a good band name.' "
Yes indeed! MUCH too early for a button, especially on a holiday. Also too early for playing leapfrog on a supine human's torso, for knocking the heavy salt shaker onto the metal stovetop, and especially for leaving a regurgi-gift on the bathmat to be discovered by . . . let's just say the worst possible means.
What's the nastiest pet-perpetrated wake-up call you-all ever got?