The source of my insomnia is encased in a cream and black fur coat and has lovely blue eyes. My husband has no sympathy for my predicament, he tells me to simply push the cat off the bed if she is annoying me. . This is an impossibility. Even in sleep, I cow tow to her every wish, adjusting my sleeping form to maximize her comfort.
We always start out well; she comes to bed, kneads on my forearm for a while and then cuddles next to me. Inevitably, at the precise moment that I am falling into the deep REM sleep I need so badly, she decides to move, lick my face (or worse, my eyeball) with her raspy tongue or jump on top of me and practice her tap dancing. We finally come to an agreement that she needs to let me return to sleep; she kneads on my forearm, purrs for a while and then plops down beside me once again. This ritual is repeated several times during the night.
We could shut the door and forbid her access to the bedroom but she is a willful little thing and clawing, scratching and howling are not beneath her. Besides, her two furry partners in crime would only come to her assistance and join the riot outside the bedroom. She also knows how to get me out of bed by tossing precious knick-knacks off coffee tables or tossing objects off the counter in the guest bathroom if she is annoyed.
Everyone who has ever been servant to a cat knows one thing, when they are exerting their will, resistance is futile. In our case, resistance is not only futile, it is pointless-we live with three felines. That is more mind control than I am capable of fighting.
On those days I appear a little worn out, eyes puffy and demeanor a bit confused. When, despite my best efforts, there are errant bits of cat hair on my best black blazer, I am sure I can hear the whispers as I pass, "Ah poor thing, she must have a cat at her house."
We always start out well; she comes to bed, kneads on my forearm for a while and then cuddles next to me. Inevitably, at the precise moment that I am falling into the deep REM sleep I need so badly, she decides to move, lick my face (or worse, my eyeball) with her raspy tongue or jump on top of me and practice her tap dancing. We finally come to an agreement that she needs to let me return to sleep; she kneads on my forearm, purrs for a while and then plops down beside me once again. This ritual is repeated several times during the night.
We could shut the door and forbid her access to the bedroom but she is a willful little thing and clawing, scratching and howling are not beneath her. Besides, her two furry partners in crime would only come to her assistance and join the riot outside the bedroom. She also knows how to get me out of bed by tossing precious knick-knacks off coffee tables or tossing objects off the counter in the guest bathroom if she is annoyed.
Everyone who has ever been servant to a cat knows one thing, when they are exerting their will, resistance is futile. In our case, resistance is not only futile, it is pointless-we live with three felines. That is more mind control than I am capable of fighting.
On those days I appear a little worn out, eyes puffy and demeanor a bit confused. When, despite my best efforts, there are errant bits of cat hair on my best black blazer, I am sure I can hear the whispers as I pass, "Ah poor thing, she must have a cat at her house."
