Setting: late at night, in the dark bedroom, in the dark apartment Enter Ten, the opinionated tortoiseshell cat. Loudly. Stomping.

Translation of cat-conversation as follows:

Ten: Oh, garçon? I need some of those delicious little chicken-shaped cat treats.

Me: Mmm-hmmm. I'm sleeping, cat. Stop swatting my nose. What are you howling about? And what did you just call me?

Ten: Whatever. Get up. I'm bored. Also, I'm hungry. Those little chicken-shaped cat treats should do nicely, I think. Right away, please? Chop-chop!

Me: Do you understand what time it is? I was asleep. Some of us work, you know, to pay for those kitty treats you like so much. And we didn't get the chicken treats, this time. You said you didn't like them anymore. Here. Have some nice salmon-flavored kitty treats.

Ten: I like them tonight. I don't like the little fish ones. At least not tonight. Tonight, I like the chicken ones. They smell better. Also, they're shaped like tiny little chickens. So they skitter in a most satisfactory manner when I swat them across the floor. Then I can leap on them and bite their teensy little heads right off.

Me: It's eleven pm. I'm not going to the store just to get you chicken-shaped kitty treats. We can buy that kind next time we go shopping. Here. Have some fish-shaped treats.

Ten: If you don't give me the chicken-shaped treats, you may not have a next time.

Me: . . .

Ten: *calmly begins grooming*

Me: Are you threatening me? Over kitty-treats?

Ten: I don't make threats. I make promises.