I fear a feline mutiny may be afoot in the very near future. Were I to awake to find 4 sets of beady, feral eyes staring at my slumbering form with determined intensity, my stretching toes unwittingly beckoning primal instincts in my furry companions, I would not feign surprise. Those that know our raucous brood know they are a hearty clan; not many meals have been missed. But, alas, the mandatory hijacking of the revered food bowl is upon us. Our baby kitty – so peacefully slumbering in blissful ignorance this very moment – is to undergo the dreaded neuter tomorrow. The pack as a whole it would seem gets to fast with him over the night. Fear not, one might say. They won’t starve, the delay of kibble is merely momentary. But unless you’ve been woken at 3 AM to the glower of unsatisfied eyes, to the “tappy-tap-WHAP!” of not so cute mittens upon the delicate skin of your cheeks, to the yowl of decidedly angry felines, you may underestimate the depth and sincerity of my cautious tale. Wish me luck, my friends. If I seem a bit rough around the edges on the morrow, know that I likely have traversed the path of the hungry, angry mob I affectionately call my furry kids.