Midnight Attack

            I’ve just gone to bed.  It’s been a long day and I’m tired.  Usually I put the cats outside at night, but since it’s cold I decide to leave them in. Bad idea!  As I prepare for bed, brush my teeth, use the bathroom and follow my nightly ritual, the cats sit quietly watching.  They look so innocent.  Soft, fuzzy creatures lying on the couch or chairs minding their own business, cleaning themselves for a nice warm night inside and preparing for bed, or so it seems.

            As I shut off the lights I make my way around the living room to give each fuzz ball of potential energy a scrub on the head just to let them know they are loved.  As if they needed reassurance.  They clean as if I don’t exist.  They act as if I’m interrupting something important.  How dare I mess up their preened fur.  That I should touch them without permission, at night, during their evening ritual?  What was I thinking?

            So off I go to bed.  The lights go out.  I snuggle under the warmth of the covers and close my eyes.  Sleep!  Or so I think.  As I start to drift into a fog of thoughtlessness a sound in the distance brings me instantly back to consciousness.  Tiny, furry feet have suddenly grown to the size of small elephants.  I hear the thunder in the distance as it grows in intensity and then races past my bedroom door.  The Doppler Effect is quite evident as the sounds grow from quiet to loud and back again. 

            As the cats turn the house into a midnight freeway, my ability to sleep becomes an in and out affair.  I drift off, they race by occasionally plowing into a door or wall and I wake back up.  All is quiet.  I drift away and the squeal of one cat chomping on the hindquarter of another reaches my ears.  Awake again.  Then the crash of something off of a table or the soft “thump” of a feline WWF participant hitting the floor after falling from the side of the couch.  More thumping.  More racing.  More noise.  Finally I get up determined to throw them outside.

            I open the door, walk into the living room and turn on the lights.  All the cats are laying in chairs and look at me with eyes squinted as if I’ve just interrupted their deep sleep and the light is burning their retinas.  They yawn, stretch and preen a bit and then curl back up in a ball.  How can I throw them out when I have no proof that they did anything?  Maybe it was all in my head.  Maybe it was a dream.   I’m sure it’s not, but…

            So, back to bed I go.  I shut my eyes avoiding looking at the clock because I don’t want to know how much time I’ve lost and what little is left before I have to get up for work.  I drift away.  Somewhere in the hazy twilight of going to sleep and reaching the REM state, when my mind is at peace but not quite “gone,” my brain and body become aware of something that’s not right.  One of the cats has decided to become Ninja Fuzz and has flown through the air, the silence undetectable by any means whatsoever, and lands squarely on my chest.  Bam!  My brain screams “heart attack,” my chest screams “pressure, get it off,” and my arms instinctively fly at my chest to feel what’s going on. 

            Unaware that it is a cat, my hand immediately feels a fuzzy object and my chest feels sharp pinpoints of pain where Ninja Fuzz has anchored himself with his claws so as not to lose his grip.  The pain of course triggers an immediate response in my brain screaming “rip it off!”  I grab this thing and fling it out of desperation ripping chest hair and skin from my body in the process.  As fast as my brain registers this pain Ninja Fuzz is already airborne.  Half a second later a muffled thump hits the wall and the exhaled sound of a half-deflated “meow” reaches my ears.  Then the thud of him hitting the floor.  I hear scampering as he races through the house to hide and lick his wounds. Fully awake, I get up and go into the bathroom.  There, on my chest, are sixteen puncture marks all oozing blood.  Tiny rivulets run down my chest and coagulate.  I wash them and grit my teeth in pain as the soap cleans each hole left by my loving cat. 

            Checking the living room I find all the cats less one.  After a quick search of their favorite hiding places, I find Wounded Ninja Fuzz hiding underneath the table on top of a chair. He cowers, looks at me with apprehension and then crawls out, puffs his body up like an over sized cotton ball and rubs against my hand.  My anger subsides, Ninja Fuzz feels forgiven and he curls back up to sleep.  I go to bed, apprehensive, in pain and ready for sleep?