Boo-Boo is in heat again. I hadn't expected her to go into it so soon; I'd been planning on getting her fixed next week.
Of course, since she's Siamese, she's got one heck of a set of pipes on her; even with the bedroom door closed, her hallway yowling resonates at human-baby pitch (reason #768 why Karen and I will never have children — we both like our sleep too much). Fortunately, since she's a cat, we can take steps that would land us in big trouble if we tried it with human children: last night, I closed her in the room diametrically opposite the bedroom, with a litterbox and food. She had all the necessities, and she could scream her head off without disturbing us. Everybody wins!
Well, except me; I thought of this plan after Karen went to bed, and when she got up, she assumed Boo-Boo had gotten trapped accidentally, and let her out — so I woke up to the head-splitting wail of a cat desperately in need of a shag (thus making it clear to me why the German word for "hangover" literally translates to "cats' discomfort").
I'll say one thing; Boo-Boo did manage to get me up faster than my alarm clock usually does; she has no snooze button. Unfortunately.