Hello Kitty Nightmare

This is my week to do the paper route. You need to understand that this is my husband’s job. It’s 365 days a year and if you can’t do it you are supposed to get someone to cover for you. That’s where I come in. During a moment of compassion for the guy complete loss of brain function a few years ago I said that I would do it so that he could go to the Cornerstone Music Festival. So once a year it’s mine.

He could repay me the favor, but he’s somehow hesitant to fill his belly with gangrenous calamari, rub ground glass in his eyes, fasten an oil filter wrench around his head, bathe in boiling oil and still maintain a semblance of his own tasks while doing whatever it is that I’ve asked him to do in trade. Did I mention that keeping this schedule does not make me feel well? The job itself isn’t the problem. The problem is that people think papers should be delivered before anyone worth knowing most everyone is conscious.

You have to understand that 4 nights out of 7, when the world is as it should be, I am going to bed at about the same time as he is getting up to do this miserable job for which we are very grateful. Then, for one week a year, I’m supposed to be able to function at the level of an average human a slow loris, when in reality at that time of day, I have the intelligence of a worm rock.

Sunday, all day, after the first morning of this year’s stint, I felt like shit, o wait, I don't talk that way an old sock dragged through the compost pile and run over by a truck. That night I managed to fall asleep at 1 am, and the papers were late, so I got 4.5 hours of sleep. Not bad. Monday was pretty good.

Last night I thought I was doing well at extending the sleep time. I was sleepy at midnight and went to bed. I had just fallen asleep when a box leaped off my sewing table and dumped itself all over the floor. Right. It was assisted by the cat. This is the 19-year-old cat, V-8. I’m not going to show you a current picture of her, because you would call the ASPCA on us. She looks like walking road kill bad. She doesn’t seem to have any of the old-cat diseases like kidney or liver problems, but she has lost a lot of her hair, and some of the remaining sections are matted beyond fixing. She has trouble with her back legs, and oh, yeah... just incidentally, she has more or less lost her mind. I basically don’t mess with her; this is the cat that bit me for just touching her.

Back to 12:10 am. I turned on the small bedside light and discovered her sitting in a box of fabric. Grrr. She can’t leap on things like she used to, but when she wants to get somewhere she claws and fights her way there. So, I dumped put her on the floor, turned out the light and sincerely hoped that I could get back to sleep.

12:20 am. Ping, chink, thump. Another box of stuff hit the floor. I turned on the small bedside light and there was the cat back in the same box of fabric. And I’m not very sleepy now. I got a towel, threw it over the cat, wrapped her and hauled her into the utility room where her litter box and food is. She has a little cat door to get in and out, but it doesn’t have a cover to lock her in. I grabbed one of the boxes she had just emptied and wedged it against the hole. Back to bed.

12:?? I hear scrabbling somewhere in the room. Dang... that cat must have gotten out the little door before I got it covered. I turned on the large overhead light (causing the dog to squint and bark), and there is the cat in the middle of my sewing table trying to clear a spot to suit her between piles of projects. Deployment of the towel again, dumped her back in the utility room and made sure that the box was tight against her little door.

12:54 am. The sound of my good scissors hitting the floor awoke me again. The cat makes a flying leap (her brain cells failed to inform her legs she can’t leap any more? She’s just determined to win this battle?) for my sewing machine, sending my good scissors skittering and she's heading straight for the thread box which she has pulled the top off of.

OK, I’ve had it. All the lights, towel, bad words... I threw her in the bathroom. Put the shelf unit with little interesting things like Q-tips and toilet paper, and the trash can in the hall, and shut the door. Sorry, cat, but I’m bigger and marginally smarter.

Thankfully the papers were a little bit late again. At 4:30 am when I got the call that the papers were in, I let her out. She was hunkered down behind the toilet- choosing the coldest, dampest spot in the entire room just to show me how mean I was to her. I got a super cat glare, but I did get a few hours of sleep.

This is supposed to be funny, but I can’t tell if it is. I think my IQ is lower than the cat’s after day three of this schedule. Only 5 days to go. There has to be a way to make the hubby pay for this.... he just doesn't get it.

See Looking for Love for a day I was happier with the cat
See Where Does an 18-Year-Old Kitty Sleep
Grateful for Modern Medicine