The Charlie Bravo Story

Sleeping with a cat

I did a very bad thing… Something so heinous that I had to wait until I had reached the ripe old age of fifty-seven to stoop to the level of debauchery that was achieved last night. And did this happen in the bedroom? Oh no, an act this reprehensible must take place in a suitable place, in this case, the garage.

I slept with a cat.

Don’t judge me too harshly, although the dogs all have. I figured that I’ve made it this far in life without sleeping with a cat, and as we’re not promised the hope of tomorrow, why not try a little walk on the wild side? So, I cranked the wall unit AC, set up my Helinox camp cot, and settled in for the night. The kitten spent an inordinate amount of time tromping around on my head, making dough off my scalp with his needle-like talons until promptly burrowing under the covers to my feet.

This was not the development I was expecting; as my kids will attest, I have the most ticklish feet on the planet, and having a kitten, an unholy combination of fluff and spikes, down there was the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition. But finally the little spaz calmed down, cranked up his purr box, and went to sleep.

OK, all was well with the world, until I realized a fatal flaw in my plan: sleeping on a camp cot with a broken collarbone. If you’re ever wanting to engage in a bit of flagellation, to punish yourself for past misdeeds, this is your ticket. There is no way possible to get comfortable, especially with the added bonus of having to listen to the dogs on the other side of the door, castigating me for my traitorship. So, around 1330, I gave up on my grand experiment and went back into the house to try to get some sleep.

You would think that the dogs would be willing to forgive and forget, letting bygones be bygones, but if you did think that, you would be wrong. I found myself deserted, even by my staunchest sleeping companions Ajax and Claire; everyone retreated to the living room in an expression of solidarity, a passive aggressive protest worthy of Gandhi.

But they, like me, eventually caved, and I awoke this morning to find that Charlie had declared an end to the strike. I once again found myself crammed into my customary 8.75″ of bed space, the only thing stopping my headlong plummet towards the floor being my talent for clutching the edge of the mattress between my butt cheeks.

It’s always a party at the Casa del Whackos… but somebody needs to come get this dang kitten.

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