When I sit down at my computer, he climbs up to the back of the chair and lies there, right by my shoulders, nuzzling my neck and purring into my ears. He’s like a cute and un-freaky version of those God-awful fox-fur stoles that still have their heads and legs intact.

(I had to wear one of those all-too-graphic fur-pieces for a show once. Fucking thing gave me nightmares. The costume designer submitted me to a sort of gradual exposure therapy, making me first look at the stole one night, then wear it for a half hour the next, then for an hour the night after, and so on. While I was eventually able to don the thing without shuddering, it didn’t become any less ugly or frightening. The foxes still bark at me from The Great Beyond.)

When I leave the house, I leave the radio set to NPR, so that Ziggy has something to listen to. So, not only is he wonderful company, but he’s also well-informed. He welcomes me home at the end of the day and fills me in on current events. In exchange, I feed him and clean up his shit. It’s working out just grand. But …

Right. So it’s been about a week? Since bringing Ziggy home, I’ve not been allowed to sleep more than 2 hours at a time. His behavior is absolutely impeccable until I try to sleep. He’s playful, but doesn’t bite. He doesn’t whine for tuna or make my life at all difficult until it's time for bed.

Bedtime makes me despair. Soon after I turn off the lights, I find myself saying, “Damn Cat,” “I hate you, Cat,” “I’m gonna kill you, Cat,” and “What the hell are you doing, you fucking whore?” as he eats my tax files, claws at my bicycle seat, and jumps multiple times from the windowsill onto my head.

For one thing, it seems that Ziggy has a love/hate affair with my blanket. He lies on the foot of my bed throughout the day, and prefers the red and blue woven madras bedspread to any of the other blankets available to him. That’s fine by me. But, he becomes exceedingly confused when it’s dark, and the smooth bedspread morphs to a dark, lumpy monster, me trapped underneath it, and the top of my head sticking out. He attacks my feet for a while, which I find unfailingly hilarious as long as his little teeth and claws fail to penetrate the 3 blankets between him and my ankles. I don’t know if he thinks he’s protecting me, or if he’s just freaked out.

I think he’s just freaked out. If he was trying to protect me, he wouldn’t have developed the nightly ritual of bounding from my feet, onto my head, biting the hell out of my hair, and (I swear to you) laughing about it.

Ziggy:“I get your feet, Momma! I get your feet, you big lump! Where your feet at, Momma? Why your feet all hidden? Oh, poop on this. I …” (*POUNCE*)”… BITEYOURHEAD! BITEYOURHEAD! BITEYOURHEAD, MOMMA! BITEYOUR— “

Me: (SWAT!) “I hate you, Cat.”

Ziggy: (From the floor, where I threw him)“Heeheeheeheehee … bite …” (*POUNCE* back up on the bed) “I get your feet, Momma!”

And so it continues, as I grow ever closer to tears.

I found temporary success last night after bapping him with my pillow, freaking him out enough to send him running confusedly to the other side of the room. He remained quiet there for a few moments, until finding something loud and valuable to gnaw on.

Can kitties tolerate Nyquil? How about horse tranquilizers? Would it be wrong to pour a little red wine in his water dish?

Why didn’t I know that cats were nocturnal? If I wanted a nocturnal pet, I would have gotten a raccoon.

Ooh! Cute raccoons! What a fantastic idea!

Sleep well, my dears. Sleep for my sake.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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