Both ways now...

Two things are aesthetically perfect in the world ~ the clock & the cat. Emile August Chartier. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths ~ until the lights go off at night! All day they can be found somnolent about the house, cuddling their people, minding vacant chairs for their missing owners, purring like demented kettles but come the night! Ah, they turn into fiends & demons & whirling dervishes!

We have a routine. The boys sleep upstairs with us. Our bedroom is their safe haven. It is where they immediately bolt if they get frightened. At night it is where we are. They know my routine & are at the stairs waiting for me as I come down the hall. They arrive sleepy~eyed, yawning big yawns. They mew piteously, anxious to go to bed. They curl round my ankles, lift small delicate chins for a goodnight scratch, shoot up the stairs & onto their blankets, a picture of innocent virtue watching me patiently as I prepare for bed.

As soon as I flick off the light that all changes! They explode around the room cannoning into walls & furniture. They hurl themselves across the bed chasing each other. Crash. Bang. Thump. They roll round in a furry lump, their jaws locked around each others throats growling & mewling . I can sleep through most things. What I cannot sleep through is Marlow.

At some point Kirby loses all interest for Marlow & he arrives on my bed. This cat is so delicate, so light on his feet, I never feel him arrive ~ until he pounces! There follows a flurry as he worries my feet, pinning me with his considerable weight as a delicate, seeking paw squirrels under the bedclothes so he can nibble my toes. Eeeew! When he has left my ankles in tatters he squirms up the bed purring his head off for a last cuddle, a last chuck under the chin & the sound of my voice telling him he's a pretty puss. [Well, after all that ruckus I can hardly tell him he's a good boy, can I?]

I believe the rest of our nights are hardly peaceful but as the boys don't disturb me [or Dearest for that matter] it's not an issue until the sun starts peeking over the horizon. Marlow, having by all accounts spent his night bouncing off our walls, is still sleeping the sleep of the virtuous. Kirby, on the other hand, starts feeling lonely. I feel him arrive & hurriedly bury my head under my doona. Nothing dismayed, his purrs reverberating the entire bed, Kirby starts fishing under the doona with a paw. His small furry head eventually follows with squeaks of delight & delighted hiccupy purrs because it is officially morning & he is thrilled to see me. Indeed he is so delighted he wants to sit on my face. And lick my chin. Nibble my ear~lobe [eeeew! gross!]. When he starts trying to pin me down so he can groom me I know I have to get up. It's the only thing to do.

I've decided both cats are quite mad.