I caught a cold last week and have been staying at Camp Couch since Saturday. I have mostly been alone; Oliver has decided that sleeping in the empty spot in my bed is much more comfortable. He’s come down to check on me, of course. And I think Obi has been sleeping on the loveseat.
So it isn’t like I’ve been alone or unsupervised.
Especially in the morning. On Monday, I needed to get up at 4 a.m. for drugs. Me playing with a foil package in the kitchen inspired the pitter patter of eight little feet. If I was up and getting a treat for myself, I might as well give them a little something something, right?
At 6 a.m., when The Boy got up, I heard them earnestly telling him that they needed breakfast. I lacked the will to move the ten feet to the kitchen to contradict them. I lacked the will to raise my head and see if I had a voice to say otherwise.
Kitten Thunder got a second breakfast.
The Boy kind of knew that and confirmed with me when he brought my coffee. But, by then, Oliver was laying with me – dutifully applying purr therapy – and no one felt like scolding him. Purr therapy is hungry work.
This morning, I woke to the familiar feel of a kitten paw poking me in the nose. I opened my eyes to see a grey kitten sitting on the floor by the couch, nose to nose with me. I lifted the blanket to see if he wanted to snuggle. His ears when flat. No.
I lowered the blanket and closed my eyes. Poke. PokePoke. Mew. PokePokePokeMewPoke. I opened my eyes. Mew.
“It isn’t time yet,” I said.
But, just as a well-aimed poke went UP my nose, the breakfast bell went off. A satisfied grey kitten turned and walked expectantly out of the living room.
I guess it was time to muster in the kitchen after all.
I’m feeling much better after two days of barely leaving Camp Couch. I’m packing up and moving back upstairs tonight.