Paws to That, Callie Cat!

I’m Callie Cat, and we need to discuss what you humans call a ‘water bowl.’ Every morning, you plunk it down with that self-satisfied grin.

‘Fresh water, Callie!’ you chirp. You think because it’s clear and wet, it’s acceptable? Please. By 10:00 AM, that bowl isn’t a drink; it’s a stagnant pond of despair. I lean in, whiskers twitching. It’s a gamble every time. If the water level drops even a millimeter below the rim—just a fraction of an inch—the bowl is officially ‘empty.’ I will sit next to it and scream the song of my people until you rectify this injustice. You look at the bowl and see 95% capacity; I look at it and see a desert wasteland.

Also, if the bowl is too narrow, my whiskers scrape the sides. But if you really loved me, you’d leave a half-full glass of ice water on the in the bowl. That’s the premium stuff.

Now, be a dear and top it off. I can see a microscopic hair floating near the left edge, and frankly, I am disgusted.