I am allergic, as well as addicted, to cats. Our bedroom is supposed to be off-limits to Mischa and Mojo to give my immune system a bit of a break every now and then. The cats do not approve of this.

02:25. Frantic scrabbling and a series of plaintive meows announce Mischa's first visit of the night. She is convinced that one day she will be able to dig through that door. I get up, open the door and start stroking her all over. She doesn't like being stroked, except on her head, and I'm hoping it will make her go away. Meanwhile, Mojo has picked up on the fact that I'm up. I can hear the cat flap go and seconds later he's galumphing up the stairs. Mischa retires in disgust - that boy gets everywhere and ruins everything! I stroke Mojo for a bit, then go back to bed.

Mojo is now ready to play. We can hear the thumps and crashes in the study next door. Eventually the noise subsides and we drift back to sleep.

03:40. Mischa's back. More scrabbling and plaintiveness. I roll out of bed again. This time they're both outside the door already. I pick Mischa up - she really hates that and leaps over my shoulder to safety. She's off, if that's the treatment she gets. Good, I think, tell Mojo firmly "No!" as he's eyeing up the door and manage to get back to bed.

04:20. Attempt #3. This time I really cannot be motivated to get out of bed, so eventually my other half gets up and I can hear him having words outside. He usually tries the stroking routine as well. As he comes back, a dark shape darts between his feet and under the bed. Mojo's a lot quicker than a sleepy human. Neither of us is in any mood to play catch under the bed, so we wait ... we can hear Mojo moving about talking to himself, but eventually temptation gets the better of him, he jumps up on the bed, is grabbed and dispatched out of the room.

Mojo doesn't bother trying to tunnel through the door. He knows what door handles are for, and one day soon he will make one work for him. In the meantime, he practises by jumping up at them, crashing into the door and falling back down to earth. He does this quite a few times.

04:45. Mischa's back. My beloved growls "it's your turn". I am getting just a little frazzled, so I grab her, hold her up in front of me and tell her how unpopular she is right now. She starts grumbling, I let her go and she takes off down the stairs. Mojo is still at the top, looking expectantly at the door. I turn him round, place my hands on his ample bottom and gently propel him towards the stairs. This buys me enough time to get back to bed.

By now there are enough feline allergens floating round to set me off. My throat is tight, I can't breathe as easily as I'd like to, and as I lie there in the dark trying to get back to sleep I wonder, not for the first time, whether I am completely mad to inflict this on myself for the sake of having cats in my life. Just as I am finally drifting off into oblivion again, I wake myself and partner up with a series of explosive sneezes.

06:45. The radio alarm comes on.

07:25. I wake up and stagger out of bed, bleary-eyed. Mischa is now fast asleep in her bed, after a hard night making sure her humans are all right. I gently scratch her behind her ears. She rolls over and presents her lovely white chin for stroking and rubbing, and as I put my head close to her I can hear a very faint purr.

No need to get close to Mojo to hear him purring, he sounds like a lawn mower as I get round to his morning loving. He pummels my arm for a while, then climbs up, drapes himself across my shoulders and starts licking my left ear.

Completely mad I may well be, but there is no way I am giving up my cats.

Copyright © Peps Turler
September 30, 2002