One of the reasons I love camp during the summer is that my cats aren’t there. Now, I love my kitties. I really, really do, but during the summer they drive me batshit crazy every night. All night.
It’s the ceiling fan.
It’s centered ever so nicely over our bed and we usually keep it on low, just to keep the air moving. The cats, being superior feline beings, assume this is done for their comfort and take exception to my being in the bed, sucking up the ceiling fan goodness. I’m nudged, bumped and nudged some more until my body is twisted and curved around the spots chosen by their Royal Hineys.
They don’t mess with my husband’s side of the bed, of course. He will—and has—play Helicopter Kitty with them if they disturb his sleep, so I’m the sleep-deprived contortionist clinging to the very edge of the bed so Gizmo and Jinx can sprawl under the ceiling fan.
It makes me long for those rest-filled nights with a 48-hour old infant.
Now I have to force my brain to cough up a coherent, compelling scene for the project I’m working on. (After I once again drool for a minute over Gallagher in the sidebar.)