Cats

My husband is a musician. And he's a good one, so he plays a lot. He usually has at least one gig a weekend and one rehearsal during the week. This means that he comes home late, and I am already in bed.

He had rehearsal this past Wednesday night and came home at 12:48. I woke up, as I almost always do, and so, unfortunately, did the cats.

For some background, this is my life:


Cute, right?

Yeah, adorable. That's my bed, the part of it where my feet should go. And yes, that is three cats. They like us, unfortunately, so they like to sleep with us. Why they sleep on me is a mystery, but they do, even though Pete should take up considerably less room.

It's not so cute when you look at it this way:

When Pete came home, Max, that's the stripey grey one, decided it was time for some exercise. This involves tossing a Christmas elf hat about, running around, and warbling the entire time. He can't do something without talking about it. I was already mad that Pete had come home so late on a week night, and I viewed Max's freak out as his fault. Even worse that I had to get up and put him downstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, Hazel, the black one, started doing the same thing, which she does not normally do. It was like she was filling in for Max while he was in the penalty box. I got up again, and put her downstairs, too. I could hear them down there, running around, and early in the morning, Max started yowling.

It was not a good night. I was not pleased.

I knew that Pete was a musician, but I did not realize the effect that would have on my cat life.