22 October 2005

The Cats of Tindalos

Now that I am officially “old”, my back forces me to change my sleeping locations with depressing regularity. The offending room with the too firm/soft bedding is then either bricked up or cleaned out by a gang of grim char-women wearing self contained breathing apparatus and bearing flamethrowers; depending on the contents of my bank account and whim.

This migratory behavior through the bedchambers of the rambling, eldritch Von Scientist mansion has the added benefit of temporarily perplexing the cats.

“Tonight, we shall sleep on the fat one.” They invariably say to themselves in their inscrutable cat language. “He is both soft and warm.”

They wait until I am deeply asleep, then slink onto the forbidden bed. They position themselves carefully on the covers, playing Lilliputians to my Gulliver, while one will nuzzle my face.

“Ooh, ah, Gretchen, you minx, well, why not?” I answer from a dreamy half asleep state. It is just at this perfect moment that the evil little bastards choose to shatter my reality.

“HORK, HORK, HORK, HORK…” One of the cats is making a present for me to find with my bare feet.

“Notonthecarpet,youlittleBastard!” I shriek, trying to vault out of bed and carry the spasming creature to bare floor. Alas, I am firmly be-catted.

“HORK, HORK, b’Cwaaa-ACK!” Too late.

I suddenly realize that my face is being licked by a tongue that has of late, been delicately cleansing a felinary terminus.

Oh, where is the dog, my protector? She eventually arrives, and judging by her breath, has been mining the cat box for tootsie rolls. She too jumps on the bed to join in the slathering tonguely mayhem.

“Off, OFF, OFF, OFF!” Yells an awakened and furious Gretchen. To my horror, the edict includes me. I clean up the hairball and retire to the couch with blanket and pillow.

But sleep does not come. I know they are out there, stalking, waiting.


And that's the way I likes it.