We have two cats. Both of them are purebred Maine Coon Cats; one of them we bought from a breeder in Georgia five years ago, and the second one was a rescue cat we received through the same breeder about six months later. For our purposes here, we will call them, respectively, Fat Cat and Flat Cat.
Fat Cat is…well…fat. Not only is he fat, he’s big. Really honkin’ big. He’s the feline version of an NFL lineman that’s let himself go to seed after a knee injury ruined his career. In his youth, he was a big, powerful, athletic, twenty-pound graceful leaper of a cat. Now, as he hits middle age, he’s twenty-nine pounds of gray-and-white tabby inertia. He’s also dumber than a bag of hammers. He’s lovable, he’s snuggly, he’s a big furry emotional sponge that doesn’t mind being cuddled when one of us is having a bad day. But he’s rock-stupid.
All this description leads up to this morning at about 4:00 am, when I was awakened.
By Fat Cat lying down.
ON MY HEAD.
I don’t remember much about waking up. I vaguely remember grabbing various Fat Cat appendages, trying to push the big pile of furry Jell-O off my forehead before my skull shattered. According to my wife, I was randomly cursing, with the only coherent words being “CAT ON MY HEAD!”
After a few seconds, I managed to get my head free and sit up…in time to look back at my pillow and see Fat Cat, unruffled, lie down on my pillow (the entire thing) and look at me with this “durrrr, hey boss, dis is soft!” look.
His landing on the floor was not a gentle one.