I discovered that the cat has infested the bed with fleas. Why do I say that Missy infested the bed and not the fleas? Because I blame her directly. The fleas do not know what they are doing. They are but fleas. But Missy! Missy knows she isn’t supposed to sleep in our beds, although she does so on a regular basis and I occasionally carry her in and place her there myself when I am feeling especially like chickenshite. But she should know better, really.
I suspect that she isn’t afraid of me you know. She flops all over my books and the laptop when I’m doing work at the dining table, but the moment my mother turns the doorknob, she scampers for dear life, her little barrel of belly fat wobbling giddily as she leaps from table to chair, and if she feels like the effort, to floor. Why don’t I inspire such discipline?
She is now sleeping soundly beside me. White and fluffy with one paw over the other. OH GOD WHY DID YOU MAKE CATS SO DAMNED CUTE?? She will never fear me like this. I will live forever as the owner cats can walk all over, especially when they’re hungry at the break of dawn.
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