You know it’s time to write another editorial when you find yourself alternating between falling asleep and becoming offended reading what you’ve already written.

Life’s much easier as a cat. Mine currently is enjoying her second extended vacation in the Promised Land, otherwise known as my mother’s Home for Wayward Animals, exclusive purveyor of gourmet delicacies to a large portion of the wild animal population of Marion County.

If squirrels merit a bushel of corn cobs and a 25-pound box of peanuts monthly, songbirds merit two 15-pound bags of specially mixed seeds biweekly, and orioles merit a quart of Smucker’s Grape Jelly weekly, what treat should be expected by a cat who tirelessly pursues to the top of every piece of furniture any moth that dares enter the house?

A morning sip of milk — provided it comes before anyone else begins breakfast — seems a fair price to pay for all the assistance provided in such activities as making and unmaking beds and delivering rubber bands and twist ties to obscure locations throughout the domicile.

Getting there takes a bit a training. And you know what they say about the difficulty of training humans. So for all the cats among our reading audience, a few tips:

After loudly insisting on milk each morning, promptly turn up your nose and walk away when it’s offered. Refrigerator milk, you know, is far too cold.

Insist that your human warm it in a microwave, but don’t be too eager to accept it. Return, sniff it quickly, then again saunter away. Microwaved milk — too hot.

After allowing for an appropriate Goldilocks interlude, casually saunter back in and daintily insert your right paw into the milk to test its temperature.

Satisified that it’s just right, drink a bit, but savor the last few drops for later.

Now if cats could only develop an interest in sticking their paws in editorials.

— ERIC MEYER