Friday, July 31, 2009
So I'm lying in bed at 2 a.m. and I have to go to the bathroom. Next to me is Whiskers, in her usual spot at the edge of the bed.
As I usually do, I elbow her aside, she jumps down and off I go.
But not last night. Oh, no. Last night she decides she would much rather I climb over her, with the result that when I actually shoved her off, she grabbed for the bedding to hang on with all her might -- only instead of her claw grabbing the bedding, it grabbed the back of my hand -- where she dangled for a few seconds.
While I screamed.
One would think, in a house-full of men, there would be a stampede in my bedroom. I mean your mother, your wife, the one who feeds you -- IS SCREAMING.
Crickets chirped. Clocks ticked. My hand bled. Whiskers observed me with righteous indignation and marched off in a huff to sit on my African violet -- like she was the injured party.
To her credit, Zsa Zsa was right at her heels, using her sad, hoarse bark, then returned to me to nurse my hand.
My heroes? Didn't miss a second's sleep.