Usually, I'm a good slave. I haven't pulled any pranks on Shmoggleberry since he got me back for moving him while he was asleep. Personally I'd prefer not to live my days without the threat of imminent kitty revenge hanging over my head. I have learnt, much to my chagrin that Shmogg is a being Not To Be Messed With. All human japes have been answered in turn with their own form of catly punishment, to the point where I have decided its not worth tricking the beast, I am obviously way out of my league. Sometimes, I admit, I feel the temptation, but the Wrath of Cat is not something I wish to experience again.

However, this time I plead innocent. The savage attack on my ankle wasn't warranted, and the attempted knee-capping that followed shortly after was committed in error. While I admit that while it would have been a good stunt had I intended it, my motives were pure. But as a good bondswoman, I will accept my fate, whether it was deserved or not, with grace. At least Shmogg is talking to me again.

For the last month or so, I've had a really hard time getting to sleep, and an even harder time staying there. Shmogg has been doing wonders with purring and snuggling and being, well, all an insomniac cat-maid could ask for, but I have still been waking up in the dead of night for no apparent reason. I've tried warm milk, reading before I go to bed, changing the number of pillows, adjusting the warmth of my covers, just about everything without turning to drugs. Why I wake up bright, chirpy, alert and full of beans at 3am seems a little unfair, particularly when I'm known for not waking up with glee at more sociably acceptable times of the morning. The "off" button on my alarm clock is getting jealous of how much attention the "snooze button" finds itself with, and even my boss has noticed my lack of energy and verve, even after my requisite super-strong morning coffee. Lack of sleep effects my moods, and I've found myself increasingly slipping into depression. Avid readers will note the lack of stories over the last month, its because I've been feeling tired and depressed, and have found it increasingly hard to find the lighter side of life.

The night before last, Shmogg must have known it was going to be a rough night for me. Instead of sleeping at the bottom left corner of the bed as he usually does (mostly to stay out of range of the spasmodically kicking legs) he graciously chose to crawl under the covers and curl up right next to me. He sometimes does this, but for whatever reason doesn't stay like that for more than a few minutes. Nevertheless, I savoured every moment of my wonderful nurse-cat purring me to sleep with fur-to-skin contact to make the most of the purring.

I was most surprised when I woke up at 1am to discover that he was still there, under the covers, making cute snuffly snoring noises. I was almost as surprised to find him almost in the same spot at 2am, and although I was happy at 3am that he was still with me, I certainly wasn't so joyful about being awake enough to be aware of his existence.

Although I should have been pleased that Shmoggleberry was still fast asleep under my covers at 4am, the fact that I was awake somewhat soured the experience. When I woke up yet again at 5am, the position of Shmoggleberry was far from my mind, in fact, the very existence of any cat or anything else for that matter was irrelevant compared to the fact that I was awake - bright and shiny and happy awake - yet again.

Drastic measures had to be taken. My last resort before drugs has always been to change the direction of my bed, so that I sleep with my head pointing a different way than usual. Re-arranging bedroom furniture at 5am is perhaps not the most practical of things to do, so I decided that just taking my pillows up the other end of the bed and sleeping "upside down" would serve just as well. Shmogg did not stir as I re-arranged myself, and I drifted off to sleep fairly quickly.

I had three blissful hours of slumber before the alarm went off. Shmogg woke up as I did at the sound, although he is far more thrilled at the sound than I. To him it signals breakfast, to me it means another long dreary day of work. But yesterday morning, he woke up with a fright. As he opened his eyes he literally jumped up in the air. He looked at me, looked around, wide-eyed and scared, and uttered a confused and angry "Mroeowo?". He tried to jump off the bed only to discover that he had actually appeared further on *into* the bed. He was not amused.

From his perspective, I had once again played the number one trick a human can pull on a cat - moving the cat while he sleeps. But I hadn't. Silly cat had taken his frame of reference from my prostrate body, and as far as he was concerned I'd completely turned the room around and made it its mirror image while he was asleep. It only took him a few seconds to figure it out, and he did look kind of sheepish as he got off the bed - the right way this time - but for those few seconds between sleep and 100% awake, the whole universe had turned itself inside out.

I know what he felt like - sometimes it takes me a few minutes to figure out where I am and what my name is after a heavy sleep, but for goodness sakes, its not my fault he, for whatever reason, used me as his internal compass. But heck, it cheered me up no end and even made the rest of the morning bearable, well after the coffee anyway.

So perhaps I *do* deserve the ankle-bite and attempted knee-capping. I just wish *he* had a better sense of humour about his own foibles, but I'm asking for miracles. If you are perfect, there's no foibles to be amused with.

Copyright © Vicky Chapman
December 12, 1999