Imagine this, now: It’s late night. I’m in bed. Finny McCool is snoozing deep beneath the covers, curled tight against my legs. PIB has finally come out from beneath the dresser and is meatloafed on my chest, his hind-end fitted between my neck and shoulder. Soft, peaceful cat and dog snores fill the quiet room. Well, how about that. My wee beasties have called a truce! I sigh, happy, and finally, finally drift off to sleep myself.
All together now: “Awwwww.”
Suddenly, a long, low, menacing feline growl vibrates in my ear, dragging me unceremoniously from the depths of sleep: PIB is still crammed against my neck, but now he’s stiff and fluffed out, poised for action. He hisses. If his tail wasn’t stuck against my jugular, it would be switching angrily back and forth.
At hip level, Finny is on his feet on top of the covers, gazing at PIB with a goofy grin, his tail wagging madly. He thinks it’s playtime.
I should be groggy from the Elavil, but noooo. I’m totally wide awake in the dark. My hands are throbbing from RA, but I’m afraid to move, because if I do, Fin might decide to bounce forward and PIB will launch himself, claws flailing.
I envision eight back-foot cat claws raking my face. This is not good.
I move one hand slowly, slowly, until it’s right by PIB’s back end. His growling is louder, taking on a hysterical tone. I feel Finny’s wagging bottom go up, his front end dropping down into full play position. I have only seconds left before all hell breaks loose.
Quick, I shove PIB sideways and he goes flying off the the bed, hissing and yowling on the the way down – and catch Fin in mid-air as he leaps skyward in surprise. PIB scrabbles wildly for his refuge under the dresser. There’s a moment of silence, and then he sets up a continuous, furious growling.
I have Finny clutched to me. It’s over. No one got hurt.
And so went the night, in various repetitions of the same general situation. Did I actually write in that last post, “I’m looking forward to a long and lovely life with Finny McCool” ?!
(grin) Well, I am, yes. It looks to be a rather long week, though. PIB isn’t about to give up his kingdom in my room, but Fin hasn’t grokked yet that the cat really isn’t interested in playing with him. As I write this, hands still aching, PIB is on my lap, head-bumping them, wanting some serious strokes. Fin is curled on the bed, catching a few lost Zs. On the desk next to the computer is dog whisperer Cesar Millan’s “Be the Pack Leader.”
I probably ought to start reading, fast.
Finny and I just took a long walk (!) and gave ol’ PIB an hour or so’s peace and quiet. Fin’s actually great on the leash — he doesn’t pull, just trots along, stopping to sniff now and then. We had a good time, and my hands (very bad today) are grateful. I’m considering a nap …