It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…it was the night I realized my cat is a master at war time sleep deprivation techniques. Where he learned this, I have no idea. He’s sneaky that way.
As mentioned in my previous post, moving during a pandemic sucks big time. I had finally walked in for the night at around 11:30 p.m. The kitties were in hiding in the bedroom closet and I was able to slowly coax them out by laying the box spring and the mattress on the floor. Assembling the headboard and foot-board would have to wait until the morning.
I found the sheets and pillows and was ready to settle in for the night. In the dark, I heard movement from the closet. My little furballs were starting to feel safe enough to come out. Angus McKitten quickly claimed his spot at the foot of the bed. Pacino, though, made my life a living hell from midnight to 4:00 a.m.
How so? How can one little cat have such a profound effect on my sense of sanity? Glad you asked. It went something like this, and I quote; “meow? meow? meow. MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW…….MEEEEOOOOOOWWWW MEOW MEOW.”
All. Fucking. Night.
I got out of bed, picked him up and walked around the condo with him in my arms as one would an inconsolable infant. He wanted to be picked up, then he wanted to be put down. Make your mind up, you bi-polar fuzzball.
Each time I was on the brink of falling asleep, it would start again. MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW. At one point I yelled “Pacino! Shut the fuck up!” Seriously? Yelling at a cat. Nice. Here’s how exhausted and desperate I was for some sleep…..the thought of choking my beloved little booper actually sounded like a viable option. My brain on no sleep is a dark, dark place my friends.
I think even he got fed up of his antics and finally conceded to knock it off. He usually sleeps at the foot of the bed with Angus. Not tonight. He instead crawled right under the covers and I basically spooned the freaking cat all night. He was trembling, poor thing.
We all finally fell asleep and in the morning, I woke up, startled. Where is he? Then I remembered he was right there, next to me. He wasn’t moving and i thought…oh crap. Did he die? Maybe his little kitty heart gave out. This is all my fault. I’m a cat killer. I never should have moved. Look at what I did to these poor animals. I hate this place. The cats hate it. I should have stayed in renter’s hell, where I belong. Who am I fooling? I’m no home owner. What have I done? I want my mommy! Waaaahhhh…!
My mom had called at about 8:00 a.m. to see how the move went. I was still in bed, hiding under the covers. That’s when the buyer’s remorse made its grand entrance. If it could talk, it would have said something like this; “Here ye, here ye. I have an announcement, people. I hereby proclaim that Chrissie B has made a monumental faux pas. I speak on behalf of her feline companions when I say that it would have been a far better choice for all involved to have stayed in aforementioned renter’s hell and have her throw her money away until the day she retires…nay! until the day she dies, rather than make a sound investment choice. Clearly her cats are miserable with the extra square footage and overall better quality of life! I sentence her to public flogging in the town square!”
My mom’s reaction was….”uhm, dear, I really think you’re just over tired and stressed. This has been a lot to do, all by yourself. Get some rest and I’ll call you later.”
She was right. Best. Decision. Ever. Oh, and the kitties are happy too, little shits that they are.