My cats are magpies...

They very nearly didn't make it to their first birthdays.

Picture this. 5:30 in the am (which is simply an ungodly hour and which I should not see except on my way to bed), and I'm in the shower. Washing my hair and trying to wake up.

I hear a little "tink" from out in the bathroom and immediately think to myself, oh hell. I peek around the shower curtain and there are two very guilty looking little fuzzballs. One on the counter and one peeking around the door. I look at them, they look at me. Then the little toe chompers dash out of the bathroom as if Cerberus were after them.

I hurry up and finish my shower and get out to look in the sink. Sure enough, one ring. The other three that I wear on a daily basis are no where to be found. I mourn their loss down the drain and start thinking about what I want to do with the cat corpses. I consider cooking them, decide it's too much trouble and decide to just huck em in the dumpster and then start mentally spending the money I'll be saving on cat food and litter.

I wander downstairs, half dressed and cursing enough to peel the paint off the walls. In the kitchen, on the floor, there sits a ring. That's right. The little bastards took it off the counter in the bathroom and carried it down to the kitchen and then WENT BACK FOR MORE.

Now, I'm a kind and generous and forgiving soul. So, instead of killing them, I've now decided that I'll just go ahead and maim them a bit. After all, I've gotten one back and a little leniency is in order now. Over by the door at the bottom of the stairs is another ring. Pull the blinds at the sliding door onto the porch aside and there is the last missing ring.

At this point, I quite simply can no longer be annoyed and give myself over to laughter and give them full amnesty.

And on a side note? Home grown radio commercials are really really bad. * shoots the naughty store ad in the head *