The farting cat

Well, the cat stopped farting, but she did decide to dance on my head in the middle of the night.

Okay fine, it's wasn't a dance as much as a frantic raking and pawing at my head to try to get me to roll over into a more comfortable position for her. Because really, what's more important than the cat being comfortable in the middle of the night?

I resisted as long as I could, but when the poking became more insistent and moved down my back, I waved the white flag, rolled over and let her burrow in beside me. I was wide awake by then anyway.

See, it's not enough that she's in the bed with us, I have to be facing her and, if possible, cuddling her not unlike a child cuddles a stuffed toy.

It sounds cute, but it's surprisingly un-cute at 4:00am when you've been wakened up by yet another bad dream.

I'm such an enabler. When I was single and Lucy was the only living being who crawled into bed with me at night, I relished the company. She even had her own pillow, right beside mine. It was a cozy arrangement for both of us, and it suited us just fine. Because she had her own designated spot she vary rarely woke me up to make things more comfortable and we were both happy and rested every morning.

When I got married and introduced a 6'3" husband to the mix, things changed. My Beloved wasn't keen on the idea of a threesome, and Lucy was uncertain of the flailing, roaring giant that had usurped her position as my bedtime companion.

They enjoyed each other during the day, Lucy and My Beloved, but when night fell they merely eyed each other warily, knowing that soon the battle of the sheets was going to be waged yet again.

It was cool to be fought over in bed. Very cool indeed.

Although not especially bright, Lucy is patient and stubborn. She simply bided her time, pretending to prefer the couch, the closet or a basket of clean laundry over the big, cozy warm bed she was used to. Before long she was once again an almost regular fixture under the covers - but always on my side. Lucky me.

I can't count the number of nights I've been awaked as though in a vice, squished between My Beloved and an equally space-demanding feline.

But you know, as long as they're comfortable.

Some nights I could swear we have 50 cats. Lucy gets hot all burrowed down under the covers, so she needs to get out every so often. But then she gets cold and has to get back in. If she didn't have to poke at me to get me to lift the covers it wouldn't be so bad, but as her doorman I need to be awake to escort her back into her burrow. And thus the poking, raking and pawing at whatever part of me she feels will best get my attention.

It doesn't always make for a great night's sleep (especially when you throw bad dreams into the mix) but I have to admit that I'm pretty grateful I have two souls who want so badly to curl up with me every night.

It's been lonely this past year knowing that there's no Thomas to cuddle with in the wee hours of the morning, and while a cat and a husband aren't quite the same thing as a precious newborn baby, they're pretty good substitutes.

Even with the cold feet and tuna breath.