Good morning. Well, good pre-dawn. Here, let me bat your face to help you wake up. That’s probably as much as your weak human eyes will adjust to the dark but that’s OK. We can talk while I press my full weight on your chest. While you were out celebrating with what smells like the magnum of Cook’s Brut you drank in front of the TV last year, I was here in quiet contemplation, except for the squawling of your stupid bird. I took a long hard look at my life and, beyond my glossy coat and my objectively perfect body, there was a lot I didn’t like. So I’ve made some resolutions. I am prioritizing eating better this year. We all indulged over the holidays with roasts and gravies and desserts and leftovers, and I don’t see why we can’t maintain that lifestyle. You seemed to enjoy passing me bits of ham from the table at first. In my defense, the meat of your thumb was similar in seasoning and texture, and in the salty blur of ham frenzy, a less restrained individual than myself might have kept going after hitting your watch. In those nature shows you flip past on the way to the one about horrible plastic surgery mishaps, my brethren on the savanna are always stalking herds from the brush, taking zebras down by their haunches. I felt the same primal instinct as I sprang onto the kitchen counter and put my whole face in the butter dish. I heard and acknowledged your concerns about your “food and vet budget” after the unfortunate business with the kielbasa, but, as I said, I have resolved to prioritize my dietary needs. And I am a hunter. I will no longer suppress my own spiritual nature for your comfort. I am who I am and any dry food in my dish will be knocked under the refrigerator with the key to your bike lock. Yeah. That’s where that went. You need to consider how your choices are disrespecting me and my self-care. I will not abide another austere January waiting for your resolutions to crumble, counting the days until I can once again crawl on your napping form to harvest the trail of barbecue chip crumbs from your sweater or jam my head into what’s left of a pint of gelato. We both know how this will end, so…