A moment of peace is to lay leisurely upon the sofa, with the weight of a newly cracked-open book within your hands, and a softly-purring cat resting at your feet. Those are the sweet calming things I like to dream about before reality hits me like a ton of furry bricks, running straight towards my knees at race-car speed. There goes the book, flying five feet into the air in an awkward and opposite direction of my well-wrinkled bookmark. Of course I didn’t look at what page I was on; I was in my relaxed “Happy Place” until Attila the cat decided to play footsies at a most inopportune time.
As I bend down to get my much-needed bookmark, not that there aren’t twenty more just like it in the desk to my right, I find that the afore-mentioned cat seems to think it is time to play tug-of-war with it and put a big bite-mark in the end. This takes all my attention to get the bookmark back from the jaws of death, only to be used as a leaping pad for my daughter’s cat, a beautiful dark calico cat that seems to have eaten her weight to top fat kitty on the block. That’s okay – I didn’t really need that part of my spine anyways.
Finally, giving up on my dream of relaxing on my couch, which is situated in Hell Kitty Headquarters apparently, I limp and drag my mutilated body towards my sanctuary. I hear angels singing and see a spotlight from Heaven shining upon my glorious queen-sized bed. I turn back the covers, adjust the cool pillows, and stretch out my sore muscles. Pick up the beloved book, take a deep breath in, and bam-boom-yowza, my football-shaped cat lands on my stomach and crushes my innards into what used to be my back. How could I forget about Hell-cat number three? And where in heck did my darn book go this time?
After I shift my deformed body into a Hunchback of Notre Dame standing position, muttering about my daughter’s incest laughter at my horrific nightly episode, I pick up my now wrinkly book, drag what’s left of my squished jellified body into the bathroom for some alone reading time. But no, there are three cats scratching at the door and a tween that just won’t stop laughing at my expense. So what is a woman to do?
I drag my sorry butt back into that bedroom, scrunch myself under the covers, and mutter threats about kitty-cat stew and feline breakfast surprise recipes until I fall fitfully into the dark slumber of sleep. Upon waking up, I pat my three cats on the heads, kiss my child on the forehead, and continue in my sweet bliss until the next fit of fur starts flying. I can’t help it…I must love my life to go through this escapade each night. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It is passionately written…