While Jesse usually stays put in Jameson’s room overnight, for whatever reason, he decided he needed to come hang out with Marty and I.  In our bedroom, under our bed.  Practicing his kick-boxing skills.  From about 12:30 a.m. on, every few minutes I would hear and feel a little ‘thump’.  My husband could sleep through a freight train, carrying pterodactyls, derailing in a nitroglycerin plant.  I, on the other hand, sleep so lightly that Jesse’s little leg kicks reverberated into my every fiber.

I “sshhtt” and “ppsstt” for about an hour.  It was a game to the little asshole.  I would “ppsstt” and he would stop kicking.  My eyes would start to close, my mind drifting back to sleep and then he would punt the bed again.  Finally, in desperation, I flung off the covers, landed ever so ungracefully on the rug, got down on all fours, and peered underneath the bed.  Jesse’s beady little eyes glowed back at me in the light of the moon peeking through the window.  I said some not-so-very-nice words to our cat, and waved my arm frantically under the bed, attempting to grab him, or at least give him a little swat to shut him the fuck up.  He inched his way back out of my reach.  Good, I thought.  I scared him.

I climbed back into bed, pulled the covers up to my neck and attempted to slide back into dream world.  My husband must have taken this unspoken cue and began to snore from the depths of his soul.  Sigh.  And then, it started.  Again…

SSSSNNNNOOOORRRREEEE, thump, SSSSNNNNOOOORRRREEEE, thump, SSSSNNNNOOOORRRREEEE, thump, SSSSNNNNOOOORRRREEEE, thump…

I “ahhed” and finally shook Marty awake, telling him it was his turn to deal with the fucking cat.  He rolled over, awkwardly hung off the bed, and grabbed the closest thing in reach: a shoe. He flung the shoe under the bed narrowly missing Jesse.  Jesse wasn’t amused.  He stared Marty down with his beady little eyes and Army-crawled a foot closer.  Martin grabbed the next closest item, a sock, and whipped it at the cat.  This must have been a bit more intimidating to Jesse because he took off and scampered out of our room.

I woke about 30 minutes later from a dream that I was standing in a batting cage, being pummeled with baseballs.  THWUMP!  I was still in between sleep and awake and it took a few minutes before I realized what was going on.  Apparently, Jesse had moved his roundhouse kick practice to the living room.  I could hear him bounding off the couch, landing not-so-cat-reflux-style onto the hardwood floor, and bumping up against the living room wall.  The living room wall shared by our bedroom wall.  The wall closest to my head.  This was getting ridiculous!

I sprung out of bed, glanced at the clock declaring a very early 2:16 a.m., and flew into the living room, looking to put that little monster out of my misery.  Jesse must have underestimated my responsiveness – he quickly scattered and bounced down the stairs, each step producing a loud BUMP.  I thought for sure he would wake The Beast (a.k.a. Mackenzie), but after a few moments of silence, I assumed that Jesse had found his place in Jameson’s bed and all was once again quiet.

Apparently, the party was not in Jameson’s room that night.  My eyes flew open again at 2:44 a.m., with the latest THUMP produced underneath the bed.

I shoved Marty – he immediately sprang into action, rolled off the bed, and scooped the cat up in one fast movement.  Actually, thinking back, I don’t remember ever seeing my husband move more gracefully.  He walked out to the living room, dropped Jesse off and came back to our bedroom.  As he attempted to close the door to our bedroom, anxious thoughts started to fill my mind, and I asked him to keep it open just a little, in case one of the kids needed something in the middle of the night.  He left the door ajar about an inch, and pushed a little decorative stool in front of the door to prevent it from drifting (or being pushed) open.  All I needed was the few extra moments of silence between no cat noises and no Martin snoring noises – I fell into a light sleep.

At 3:36 a.m., Jesse pounced on top of me, simultaneously emitting a loud “MEW” that scared the living shit out of me.  How in the hell did he push through the door?!  What is he, Kitty Houdini?!  If cats could laugh, I am fairly certain that Jesse would have been ROTF at that little surprise tactic.  I thought back throughout the day… what in the world did I do to deserve this abuse!?  I made sure Jesse was fed and watered.  I reminded Jameson to clean his litter box.  I didn’t step on his tail, shut him in the pantry, or fling him off the clean laundry on the couch. I am pretty sure I even gave the little bastard a kitty treat.  So why, why?! 

I snatched that little fur ball around the waist, threw him on top of Marty (you know, so he could experience the same “treatment”) and through clinched teeth, told him to take care of the goddamned cat.  Finally, finally my husband walked the cat into the laundry room, shutting him and his little asshole behavior away for the night.

By the time my alarm went off at 4:50 a.m., I felt like a zombie extra on The Walking Dead.  I shuffled through my morning rituals and downed an extra two cups of coffee.  In the kitchen, I found that Jessie had sometime in the night decided that he didn’t like my aloe, and uprooted it and left it for dead in the sink.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I left for work an hour later, I flipped the light on in the laundry room, to make sure I hadn’t killed the cat in my “sleep”, like the thoughts swimming through my head.  Jesse sat on the dryer, squinting his eyes at me like I had just woke him up from the most amazing dream. Fuck you, Jesse with no “i”.  You are dead to me.  Oh, and you owe me an aloe!