[ WP ] Cats are actually sentient , but they had been hiding it from us .

`` Hey! Asshole!'' 
 
 I am awoken by four distinct pressure points on my body, two of them on my breasts. My cat, Schrödinger, figured out how sensitive they are. Groggily, I extend my hand to the nightstand beside me and blindly reach about for my phone. The blinding light from the touch screen is obnoxious enough to give me a migraine, but it proves the point I have been trying to make to my feline friend for the past few weeks: it's 3:58AM. 
 
 With a groan, I slam my phone back down on the nightstand and try to remove my fat cat from my chest. She responds by dropping a toy mouse in my face, soaking wet with her slobber. 
 
 `` It's time to play fetch!'' the tabby chirrups at me excitedly. I had always known Schrödinger was smarter than the average cat, but I never expected her to learn how to talk in our language. 
 
 I had adopted the grey tabby from the shelter a couple months ago. I went there looking for a companion, and honestly, I was looking for a dog, but she stood out to me, rolling over and letting me rub her soft, white belly as soon as I reached out to touch her. She came home with me the very next day and from then on, she began to show her enthusiasm for playing with toys and learning. These traits are something her and I have in common. 
 
 As a student, I find myself reading books more than I care to admit. I was n't surprised to see Schrödinger take up interest too. She'd come over and sit beside me, staring at what I was reading and absorbing it like a little fuzzy sponge. That's how she found her voice. 
 
 Cursing under my breath, I picked up the slimy cat toy and stared at her. Schrödinger's eyes glew back at me in a sickly shade of green, her pupils bloke wide as she focused in on her favorite toy. 
 
 `` Ca n't you see what time it is?'' I began, my hand waving back at my cell phone. The only reason Schrödinger looked that way was because of the toy in my hand; she could care less about my prior state of blissful sleep. 
 
 The cat narrowed her eyes at me in disgust. `` Yeah. It's *time. To. Play. FETCH*,'' she said again with obvious impatience in her voice. I often told my cat that she must have been raised with a pack of dogs because of the canine-like behaviours she possesses. Ironically, she ca n't stand dogs. 
 
 I gave into her whims with a frustrated sigh. `` Fine. One throw, do you hear me? ONE. I know you know how to count because of the sixty shaky mice toys I got you from the Internet.'' She used me as a launching pad for her assault on the small toy, leaping off of me and halfway across the bedroom in one foul swoop before skittering down the hallway, her extended claws clacking against the tile as she ran at full tilt. 
 
 Even though my little pink-nosed terror is sentient and can now fluently ( and often filthily ) express her annoyance at me, I still love her with all of my heart. Maybe that's why I gave in to more than just one round of fetch that night, even though it caused me to fail my midterm. I mean, what can I say? Cats are fur-ever!
