I woke up this morning without a furry-skinned bag of bones weighing me down. Neither did I have one wedged between my knees, stealing warmth like a crack addict burglarizing the mini-mart for his next fix1. This is the first morning since we moved in here that I’ve been able to roll over and get out of bed without having to gently manipulate a slumbering feline off to one side, trying hard to not disturb His Majesty too much2.

Max was curled up in his bed; he hasn’t slept in it since he was so sick (preferring the closet for whatever reason,) but now that it’s colder he’s appreciating the fact that he has a nice, squishy bed placed just under a heat register. Buddah has a bed, too, but he doesn’t know what it’s for. He seems to think it’s just something Max steps through to get to where he’s going to curl up and sleep. Buddah apparently believes that I am his bed, and spends the night in various positions chosen specifically for their ability to impede my rolling over now and then.

Max has taught him well.

But I woke this morning, started to roll over and realized I had no feline companion to avoid squishing, muttered a brief thanks to Whomever convinced the cats to sleep elsewhere, and started to sit up. Max grunted at me from his warm little bed (“It’s about freaking time you got your butt out of bed,”) and Buddah bounded in from where ever he’d been with a squeal that sounded a lot like “MOMMY!” 3

That’s what it sounded like, but I’m pretty sure what he actually meant was “You’re up! Now make the bed so I can stretch across the fuzzy blanket without having all your lumps and bumps in my way! But first let me jump on your lap and stick my butt near your face so you can get a whiff of eau’d What Buddah’s Been Doing For The Last 3 Minutes!”

I got dressed, made the bed—and for that I had lots of little black furry help—opened the window shades when Buddah indicated that’s what he wanted, and sat back down on the edge of the bed to put my shoes on. Buddah4 looked out the window for 1.3 seconds, then jumped back to the bed where he curled up next to the pillows.

Max stood, stretched, sat down and looked at me, and grunted. His gaze was a fixed stare that said it all.

“We own you. Don’t ever forget that.” 5

1 No, it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but me.
2 It doesn’t matter which cat is it; they both think they’re royalty and entitled to special treatment. And I’m whipped just enough that I try to leave them somewhat comfy as I slink out of bed.
3 I swear, that cat has a meow that sounds like he’s trying to say Mommy…realistically I know it means “I want to eat your face off,” but it sounds like “Mom!”
4Yes, I know we don’t spell his name “correctly.” He doesn’t care.
5Eh, I just like the super script tag...

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