The Fantastic Tale of King Arthur

At the 6 o'clock hour, before the sun has risen and when groggy students and adults begin to trudge through their morning schedules, and fellow early birds are sipping through their first cup of coffee, silence is golden. No one, not even the lively, always chipper, morning lovers want to be disrupted from this brief moment of peace before the world speeds up and there isn't a second to rest. It is an understood quiet, an upheld staple of early goers. That's why, of course, there is no better opportunity than during this cherished silence, to cause mischief.

Sitting on the couch, a warm beverage in hand, and wrapped in a blanket, I found myself catching up on potential future assignments, relishing in the fact that the morning had gone smoothly and that for once I would not be rushing out the door. The rest of the household slept on, my introverted self more than satisfied to have the extra recharging time. No one was shouting at each other to wake up on time, there was no loud shuffling or the obnoxious sound of warm water rushing through cold pipes, just me, myself, and I and the rejuvenating scent of lavender earl grey tea.

This silent sanctuary, however, failed to take into account anything outside of the comfortable bubble that encompassed the warm couch. There was no reason to take into consideration the potential movement from upstairs, it was far too early, and the kitchen had no purpose save offering the light necessary to see the paper I was writing on.

What I failed to notice, however, was the movement in said kitchen, the seemingly casual shuffling as the only other organism awake at this hour meandered around on the playground of counters and shelves, making his rounds to see if there was anything worth his interest, worth meddling in. He was carrying out his own morning routine, happily sniffing in places he didn't belong, knowing he was walking on the edge, and happily content to cause any and all trouble. Always one for dramatics, it seemed to please him to happily swat at the full glass of water sitting precariously close to the edge of the counter.

All at once, the peace and serenity of the morning shattered with the glass that was now scattered all over the kitchen floor. Sitting proudly on the counter was the devious ginger looking smug, waiting for me to unravel myself from my warm nest to clean up his mess. He watched as I cleaned up the glass, casually perched, his tail flicking back and forth, as he himself wouldn't dare to risk walking through the shards. After I finished, risking slipping from the spilt water and the cuts form the fragments, he hops down like it was nothing, walking into the living room to take up a new spot nestled in no other place than in my blankets, promptly settling in for the first of many morning naps.

This diva that shares my house resembles a king in his castle, prowling through the halls as if he owns the place, and in his mind, he does. He sits where he pleases, eats where he pleases, breaks glass where he pleases, and demands attention at least three times a day, but only for a few minutes before he's swatting and biting at your fingers, as if you had committed a heinous crime of touching his long fur. Even now, he sits, comfortable to block my hands from the keys of my computer, as he always has priority. Because why type a blog when I can devote my attention to pampering his royal highness as he pleases? I am, after all, merely his humble servant.