Cat curiousity

So I've been catching some heat lately about the lack of details in the blog about my two feline amigos, Gribouille and Toulouse. I've reassured them I meant no disrespect, however, Toulouse is likely going to need some counselling. He is a very troubled soul. So I thought the best way to describe my under- and over-nourished compatriots is to outline a typical morning in my life.
Imagine it's around 5 a.m., so I'm probably contorted myself in some bizarre position, most often it includes my two arms or legs sticking out of the crib and my head upside down, pointing in some inexplicable direction. Otherwise I'm a happy camper, life is grand. I've got a soother stuck in my mouth, Lumpy is chilling beside me and I'm sound asleep. I've got visions of teething rings dancing in my head. So you get the picture, I'm sound asleep. It always starts the same way.

"Bang!" There is a crash in the kitchen/living room, I can never figure out which one, I hate open concepts. I shake my head, soother pops out, so now the process of me waking up has started. Five seconds later, the rattling in the far-flung room has stopped and then the sound of five nails on each of four tiny paws does its best Nascar impression and heads down the hall in top gear. A second later, a second set of paws prances down the hall -- think Olympic triple-jump and that is the sound of the pre-dawn Gribouille. Both are stopped at my door.
A minute later. "Maarrrrarrr," says Toulouse. At the best of times, Toulouse appears lost. In the morning, he's likely on his side, fending off Gribouille's latest attack. This morning call, is generally to remind everyone that he is still alive, as if we really cared at that exact instant. This is followed by Belle turning around in her kennel and flopping with a melodramatic sigh.
Now maman and papa have started to flail and have kicked Gribouille off the bed. Of course he blames Toulouse for his lot in life, so he chases the white cat down the hall. Fearing for his life, Toulouse bolts down the hardwood floors as if there is a can of open tuna laying around, hangs a serious left, bouncing down the stairs with reckless abandon. Every time his little paws touched down, it sounds like his body is in suspended animation but his four little legs are still moving.

Not to be outdone, Gribouille will now jump up onto the bed, just to be booted off. The sound of Gribouille hitting the ground with his trademark flop is like a finger print, it is one of a kind. So now he's really looking to get even, so he starts scratching doors or cats. Next thing I know, you hear, "Marrarrr," scratch, scratch, bang, vrrooom, crash, "Marrarr," hiss, swat, swat, vrrooom. Now Belle is itching to get out of her kennel, papa is "pssst-ing" at the cats and I'm fully prepared to wake up. The soother gets tossed out of my mouth, Lumpy is thrown across the crib and it only takes a few moments before maman or papa comes walking through that day.
Life is so predictable. I love cats.