My cat is a narcissist. The lives of every member of the household revolve around his needs.
It's early, we're asleep, but Paulie Walnuts is hungry and Paulie Walnuts is cranky and the campaign of biting and mrowrs will not stop until he is fed and freed to the outdoors.
Pint-sized sister Carmela is hiding away in the closet, snuggled into the winter coat I haven't worn since New York, but Paulie wants to play and does not respect hissing, so Carmela will be driven from her nest and chased around the house until the little tyrant is sated and she can slink back into the closet.
The fish only want to swim among the rocks of the aquarium, but P. Kitty wants to terrorize them and scratch the acrylic while he's at it. The chickens want to peck in peace, but Herr Vallnuts wants to stare at them until they're uncomfortable.
But when he splays his white-furred belly across the bed in a gesture that says, Love me, I'm fabulous, how can I demur? I worship, I shiatsu, I rub the sleeps from the corners of those greedy eyes. And he purrs luxuriously, because Paulie Walnuts loves life and himself, and I can't disagree.