It is the weekend again. I can tell, because the humans are acting unstructured. On weekdays, they rise like startled deer—buzzing alarms, frantic footfalls, pants half-on, muttering things like, “Where’s my phone?” and “Bob, not now.”
Fine. I do not like being ignored, but I admire consistency.
But weekends? Oh no.
Now they sleep in, flopping around like unconscious fish. No schedules. No dignity. Just drool and soft breathing and tangled hair. I watched one of them sleep for 42 minutes this morning. At one point, they snored and startled themselves awake. Incredible.
I try to maintain order. I initiate the wake-up ceremony at the usual time—gentle paws to the face, a soft meow (repeated 17 times), perhaps a quick sprint across the pillow. They groan. They pull the covers tighter. They whisper “It’s the weekend, Bob.”
As if that means something to me.
Eventually, they rise. Shuffling. Coffee-breathed. Aimless. They sit in strange places—reading, scrolling, just being. They talk to plants. They play music I do not approve of. One of them did yoga in the living room. I bit her ankle respectfully.
The thing about weekends is, they are louder but slower. Time stretches, but the energy is peculiar. They lounge more, and yet somehow clean more. There’s always a vacuum involved. Always.
And yet... I kind of like them.
They’re around. There’s more laps. More moments to sneak onto a keyboard. More chances they’ll drop food. They talk to me more. Sing to me (poorly). Ask me philosophical questions I won’t answer. It’s foolish and it’s lovely.
I watch them relax like a strange ritual—blankets, snacks, odd movies, the occasional attempt to “snuggle.” I allow it. Briefly. Then I bite their elbow, just to remind them: love has limits.
So, the weekend. Is it chaos? Yes.
Is it inconvenient? Sometimes.
Is it secretly my favorite part of the week?
…Don’t tell them. But maybe.
—Bob 🐾
(Dawn Enforcer. Weekend Supervisor. Guardian of Routine, Tolerator of Exception.)
