Cats unclear on the concept

My cats are Siamese. Not in coloring, but in where it counts: from Thailand, kinked tails, delicate physiques, advanced problem-solving skills, and a keen interest in conversation and rhetoric.

They're lifelong indoor cats, unsophisticated in the ways of the outdoor world despite having traveled more than most Americans, but my current apartment has a well-protected balcony on which I often permit them to go out. We spent most of pleasantly muggy yesterday afternoon lounging around outside as a family unit: me, reading and listening to music; them, sticking close by and hunting incautious insects. A nice time was had by all. M, in particular, likes to bellyflop and frolic on the balcony's rough concrete floor, like a dust-bathing elephant, but only if I'm watching and giving encouragement and approval. (How do I know? Because I've watched him surreptitiously from behind the blinds, and he stands around disconsolately and ill at ease until he spots me, and then he gleefully dive-bombs the floor.)

The separation from K has been rough on the cats, who have rarely been without human companionship over the course of their lives, and who, I'm sorry to say, now appear to regard a full-time attendant as their birthright. C, for example, who was orphaned at two weeks, used to come with me to work (this was Thailand; it was easier) and sleep in the walk-in vault so that I could feed her soymilk through an eyedropper every few hours. Then there was the Thai maid. I wasn't sure how she'd be around pets, but I came home unexpectedly one day to find her doing the dusting while with one arm clutching a purring M to her hip, so that seemed to go ok. Then there was the Indian maid, who didn't cuddle them, but kept up a running dialogue, which they seemed to like almost as much. And then K had been home for the past year -- not so good for our relationship, but highly desirable from the cats' point of view.

So, yeah: they're bored and upset, and I've come home to the broken picture frames and toppled shelves to prove it. A couple weeks ago, I walked in and saw their guilty expressions -- this isn't anthropomorphizing; I can take one look at them when I come in the front door and perfectly predict whether I'm going to discover evidence of mayhem -- and found the Roomba wedged under a low cabinet, still struggling feebly; clearly, they'd gone to its docking station, switched it on, and had themselves a joyride before the situation got out of control.

This morning, an inexplicably raw and blustery day, I woke up at 7:30 to M straddling my torso and complaining directly into my ear. "The porch was good yesterday," he told me, "take me back out there -- now. Sun's up; time's wasting." I made a token protest and effort to ignore him, but he had maneuverability and persistence and sentience on his side, so, ok, fine. It didn't end there, however. After fifteen seconds outside, M came back in and has not relented in his harangue for the past four hours. The frustration is mounting in his voice, as -- I kid you not -- he keeps trying to coax me over to the thermostat. "Make it like yesterday," he urgently instructs, "c'mon, you big galoot -- warm it up."