Not Lassie

This is the true story of how my cat DID NOT save my life.

Exhibit A:  Not Lassie

Picture this: Saturday morning, before 10 a.m.  I am contentedly slumbering when 15 pounds of cat lands on top of me.  Errol, my mustachioed minion, peers worriedly in my face.  I shove him off and try to go back to sleep but white paws keep batting at my face and sheets.  Then the meowling starts.  (That's right meowling - part meow, part yowl.)

If I ignore it, he will stop.  If I ignore it, he will stop.

He does not.

Finally I sit up and he runs out of the bedroom.  I stumble down the hallway, blearily bumping into the walls and make my way into the kitchen where he is nervously pacing.

"WHAT, CAT?"  I bellow.

As he continues to dart back and forth meowing, I notice the smell of burning.  WTF?  I open the oven and find two pieces of bread have been transformed into smoking charcoal briquets.  I pull them out and dump them in the sink.

Holy shit, the furry little butterball just alerted me to danger!  Way to go, Rolls.

I try to pick him up to give him a celebratory snuggle, but he's still agitated.  And that's when I see it.  The autofeeder, his favorite thing in the world, has been knocked over and he can't pilfer kibble from it in its current position.

I right it and he happily begins abusing it.  The sound of dropping kibble follows me down the hallway as I go back to bed.

Jerk.