Oh no. It’s morning again. Why?

It’s not that I don’t like morning. I do. It’s a good time of day. I get to sit on the couch with Mommy and watch Sesame Street and eat Cheerios.

But I don’t like going downstairs. It’s because of the cat, Muffin. With a name like Muffin, you’d expect an angel cat. She’s far from an angel.

Every morning when I come downstairs, she’s there waiting beneath the couch; waiting to spring out and claw up my ankles.

I climb out of my crib and creep downstairs. Maybe she won’t hear me coming. I step lightly down the stairs. I reach the bottom and silently turn the corner. There’s the couch. I stop. Should I wait, or run by quickly and get it over with?

Foolishly, I walk by slowly. Unfortunately, out pops Muffin, a flash of gray and white. She meows and swipes at my leg. And being only four, I think that our cat is the scariest thing on earth.

I cry and run to Mommy in the kitchen. She puts down her mug of tea and says, “Oh Baby, did Muffy hurt you?”

“Yes,” I whimper. Mommy stoops down to inspect the damage.

“Only a scratch,” she says. “You’ll be okay.”

I am relieved. No blood like sometimes. And being four, I forget about Muffin in five seconds and wait for Mommy to turn on PBS.