Husband’s godawful cat has declared war on my sleeping hours, and I’m pretty sure the things she’s doing would shock even the most depraved dictator.
But before I can get to her latest tricks, I have to tell you about a thing she pulled when we first moved here. Because I forgot to do it then, and now seems like a good time to bring it up.
ME: Your furry potato gave me quite the scare last night.
HIM: Oh? How?
ME: I had to throw the covers off because I was overheating—migraine—and they’re sleeping over here now—
HIM: I don’t know why—
ME: Because they sleep on the left side of the bed.
HIM: But I thought it was because you kick too much in the night, so they slept by my feet!
ME: Nope. They’ve decided the left side is their side and nothing will move them. It’s a whole thing, every night and every time I move my feet.
HIM: But they could just—
ME: They sleep on the left side. Anyway, I bumped them and reached down to apologize and she—
HIM: She’s a really deep sleeper.
ME: Yeah, well, she wasn’t breathing. I mean, I could see Ham breathing, but not her. So I shook her… nothing.
ME: So I pet Hamilton and he brrt a little in his sleep but she didn’t move—
HIM: She’s a really deep sleeper.
ME: … so I scruffed her and shook her and she was totally limp. And I was freaking out, so I started smacking her belly and finally she moved her head a little and I could see her belly moving with her breath.
ME: But the whole time I just kept thinking, “god dammit, I am not going to wake him up because you’re dead—”
HIM: Good call.
ME: “—I will bag your ass and stuff you in the freezer; I’ll tell him when he gets home from work.”
HIM: I was thinking the same!
ME: Oh, good—because I felt awful for thinking that about your cat. You know, once I woke up.
HIM: (reflects) … Might have made it difficult for me to finish my ice cream, though.
She’s back to her usual routine of sleeping only part of the night now, of course—I think it was just those first few weeks they needed to crash out on my feet—and has decided I shouldn’t be sleeping through the night either.
ME: (sleeping peacefully, on my side)
STUPID CAT: (leaps onto foot of bed, walks up the inside of my leg)
ME: OW! Bitch! (kicks her off)
HIM: (sleeps on, unaware of my fresh bruises)
She does this whenever she needs to travel from the foot of the bed toward the head; she’ll travel as far as she’s allowed on my body, hitting every tender point along the way. Note that Hamilton, who is actually my cat and is allowed to stand on me doesn’t do this; he knows it hurts me. When he wants to cuddle, he walks to where he wants to be then steps up.
But these last few nights she’s really upped her game. Literally.
ME: (feels something on my leg) Whmphk? (gropes blindly) Oh, fuck you. (throws spring thing)
STUPID CAT: (takes off after toy)
ME: (pokes Husband)
ME: She brought a toy onto the bed.
HIM: (shakes gently)
ME: Are you laughing at me?
ME: She dropped it on me.
HIM: (shakes violently)
ME: YOU’RE LAUGHING AT ME!
HIM: (laughs harder) I’m sorry!
Sometimes? I wake up and find her sitting by my feet, just staring at me.
If the Meth Ghosts don’t get me, his fucking “cat” surely will.
* I really struggled with a title for this post. Because the title that kept coming to me was “Cat Torture” and I think you’ll understand why I couldn’t put that out there for google to find. But you know how it is when you get a really horrible thought in your head, right? There’s no getting rid of it, or replacing it with anything decent. So you get this, and I know it makes no sense but at least now you know why.