Cat Attack

I don’t know who I’m crankier with at the moment: our new cat, Kitt, or my old wife, Tracey.

“Uffmmphffaah!” I exclaimed, my eyes bulging open from the precipice of a well earned slumber.

My wife, apparently still awake beside me asked, “You okay?”

“The damn cat,” I grumbled to the sound of Kitt landing on the floor beside me and scampering off. “I thought they all trod lightly? That thing would never survive in the wild. It’s got a footfall like a pregnant elephant.”

Tracey giggled. I wasn’t sure why. I knew she couldn’t hear me through my CPAP mask. We both rolled over and went back to sleep.

“Awwwmmpff!!” I exclaimed what might have been minutes or hours later.

The damn cat had walked across my belly again.

In keeping with our new little ritual Tracey again giggled, “You okay?”

“We need to put him on a diet,” I mumbled mostly to myself. “I’ll take the damn thing to a vet. Maybe it’s got a tumour in its gut? Big ass cat is one thing but it feels like it’s eaten a brick.”

And it does have a big ass. Ironically, that was one of the things which endeared me to it in the first place.

A little later the fur ball blew raspberries at one of its nine lives and walked – stomped – across my belly again.

I can’t prove this but I think, even with my mask on, I may have woken some neighbours. And still, despite it being seriously into stupid o’clock territory, Tracey managed a chuckle.

For weeks I’ve assumed Tracey has been giggling and cackling at my little quips about our new rescue cat in some sort of misdirected sympathy for me. Like when I kick my toe as I try to make it from the light switch to my side of the bed with my complete lack of night vision.

But no.

My wife has been laughing because up until last night she knew something I didn’t and had been keeping it to herself. Presumably to give her something to giggle about with her friends when they go for coffees catch ups.

It turns out Kitt wasn’t walking across my stomach at all. No, no, no.

Our DAMN CAT was jumping up to the top of our bedhead, softly making its way over to my side of the bed…and body slamming me.

And, because Kitt passes Tracey on its way to the jump off point, my lovely wife has always had notice enough to open an eye just in time for a bit of a giggle.

Kitt looking stupid in a photo – because I control the karma in this blog, you damn cat.
Damn cat can’t talk but I swear it’s thinking, “I’ll get you next time, Gadget.”

raising a family on little more than laughs


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