Balls!

I have this strange habit of doing things that will keep me from getting a good night’s sleep. These things seem innocent enough when I’m doing them. Later, when awoken in the middle of the night, it seems obvious that I’m…well… an idiot.

For instance, I didn’t think twice about emptying the change in my pockets onto the toothbrush stand so I could wash my jeans. At 3 a.m., though, as Obi knocked the coins one by one to the floor, my mistake was clear.

And then there was the bouncy ball. The ball that had been sitting on the floor in my office for days, untouched. The ball that I picked up and carried up into the bedroom and bounced across the room for Obi.

The ball that rolled across the floor all night.

For three nights.

Because I’m an idiot. And because, in the light of day, I’d forget to take the ball downstairs.

Idiot.

But my idiocy did lead to cuteness.

Thursday morning, as I was brushing my teeth, I glanced over to see Oliver looking at the bouncy ball. It was rolling toward him. Slowly. I looked around for the brown kitten who surely was responsible for the roll.

No kitten.

Then I saw it. A big black kitten paw was peeking out from under the bed. There was also a stripey tail poking out from the around the corner of the bed.

With one toe, I scooted the ball back toward the paw. A few seconds later, the ball rolled back to me. Scoot. Roll. Scoot. Roll. When my toothbrush turned off I returned to the bathroom. I looked back to see Oliver stretch out on the floor and gently tap the ball back to the bed.

Scoot. Roll.

***

On Friday, I had a meeting over lunch and suggested we order bocce balls and salad from a local restaurant, Pizzeria Venti. Bocce balls are large meatballs, wrapped in dough and covered in marinara sauce. Kind of like inside-out spaghetti. There were leftovers. Facing a weekend without The Boy, gone to California for a train thing, I claimed the leftovers.

For lunch today, I ate the last three bocce balls. Oliver sat behind me on the armrest of the couch. He wasn’t coveting, but he did rest his chin on my shoulder and gaze lovingly at my plate. And when I set the plate on my knee with one uneaten meatball, he attempted to help me out. When I moved the plate to the back of the couch, he attempted to follow.

I wolfed down the bocce ball – all except a little bit of dough – and set the plate on the floor. Oliver inspected the plate. He tasted the dough. Then he walked off in disgust.

He prefers a little more ball and a little less bocce.

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