I’m glad that Laika, the feral tabby rescued several years ago from the dangerous streets of Brooklyn, N.Y., has mellowed into a docile and loving creature.
I do wish, however, that she were somewhat more generous in her sharing of the bed.
By habit, the television and the lights in our sleeping quarters are turned off nightly after the Royals game or the last gunfire reports on the 10 o’clock news.
It’s time, then, to let Buddy the beagle out for his final run in the fenced yard and prepare for whatever the morrow may bring in the way of searing heat or torrential rain.
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The problem, as we turn back the bed covers, is that Laika has gotten there before us, and she has already staked out her place. It’s a queen-size mattress, but she’s a beast of substantial heft.
She doesn’t occupy it all, but she fills half the space quite adequately.
The other night, she permitted me the use of my pillow. But lying crossways at the end of the bed, she filled the bottom half completely. Push and kick as I might, there was no place to put my feet.
After a few hours of such crowding, there’s no need for an alarm clock. Wide awake in the dark, I escape my confinement and go to sit in a chair and watch another morning come.
Presently, then, the well-rested cat creeps out from her cocoon, stretches luxuriantly, and descends to the kitchen to demand her morning feed.
Do not infer from this screed that I hold anything against cats in general or the Laika cat in particular. Like all the others we’ve had — and there’ve been 25 of them — she’s a valued friend.
But even the best of friends sometimes have their faults.
For more of C.W. Gusewelle, go to gusewelle.kansascity.com.