I love sleep. In fact, I would say it is about my favorite-est thing in the world. Yes, I love it enough to violate English grammar like a naughty cabana boy in order to get that point across. I love it even more than Little Man (though not by much). However, lately my blissful sleep has been interrupted by something I love a lot less--my cat.
The cat and I have always had a troubled relationship--more like potluck roommates than like a a pet and its person. [FN1] First of all, from day one, she was not...the most...personable pet one could desire, and poor little Ursa has always been somewhat terrified that the cat was going to eat her. Second, though, was the fact that the cat was troublesome at night. In fact, other than the first week that I had her, she spent the entire first year of her life spending her nights in the bathroom locked up with her food and her litter box. After that, though, she seemed to level out.
Alas, it appears that my nocturnal luck has run out.
She has started pouncing on things that make, in her view, satisfying noises every couple of hours throughout the night. It's like having a baby. I haven't slept through the night in weeks. Around 4 a.m., I typically have had enough and decide to put her back in the bathroom, at which point I have to get out of bed and catch the beast.
Someone's little, furry butt is about to be demoted.
[FN1] This statement is even more accurate than it seems: The cat was a gift. NEVER give people animals as gifts. There is a lot of negative potential there about 95% of which the cat and I are realizing at the moment.