Saturdays with cats means someone is very busy. Someone has to get the food for breakfast. Someone sanitizes the litter boxes and puts in fresh litter. Someone hand washes all the toys that got soaked in the water bowl, coated with dust under the sofa, or worst of all, dropped in the litter box. Who did that? Someone sweeps and vacuums so it doesn’t look like the house is being invaded by ectoplasm. Someone has to wash the dishes and clean the fountains and put in fresh water. Some of the cat beds are looking a little grungy. Someone better wash those, too.
If someone can get down that list and not need a nap they might find time to pull the dried herbs hanging in their bags in the attic. They might find time to have a cup of coffee and listen to The Thistle and Shamrock and pull the leaves from the stems of basil and oregano, thyme and sage, and lemon balm and seal them into jars and tins against the days when a nice bowl of pasta or a soup is needed. They might find time to water the plants in the Victorian Wardian case and tidy the stack of kindling someone decided was as irresistible as Everest.
Of course they still have to find time to serve dinner. If they are really good, after that they might find the time to cook up some comfort food, spaetlze with cheese and onions, and curl up with a book. All of which I did.