Mice in the bed

There are rules I never thought I would have to make, first among them: No mice in the bed!

On November 30 we adopted two kittens. Pyewacket (nee Ebony — who gave a girl’s name to my little boy?) is about 6 months old and Pumpkin is about 5 months old. Both have “Rambunctious” as a middle name.

In preparation for their arrival, I went to Wal-Mart and Petco for supplies. Of course, I had to buy toys. Wal-Mart had a packet of fuzzy, fake mice in neon colors. Pyewacket loves to wait until the lights are off to snag a mouse from the toy box and bring it to bed. Then he plays. He’ll toss the mouse, dive on it and wrestle it, preferably while trapping the mouse against my thigh with his front paws and kicking it with his back. Another toss and dive onto my stomach is usually next; followed by digging the mouse out from under me, whether that’s where it has landed or not. By which time I yell, “No mice in the bed!”

Pumpkin is a mixer. Being the typical little sister, she starts trouble and let’s the older one take the blame. A favorite maneuver is to let Pyewacket settle on his pillow on the bed. Then she gets up next to him as though she’s there for a cuddle. Her next move is a slap or a bite. Pyewacket retaliates and they end up rolling around on the bed, locked in each others death grip. My arms and legs are invariably the casualties. By which time I yell, “No fisticuffs in the bed!”

Both kitties are adept at massages. Pumpkin is my massage therapist. She kneads various parts of my body with her paws and she doesn’t use her claws. Py, on the other hand, likes to use his claws while kneading my back. It’s not altogether unpleasant. The problem arises when he decides to massage my chest. By which time I yell, “No nipple piercing in the bed!”

I didn’t have to make bed rules for a husband, but I have to for animals. There’s something vaguely disturbing about that.

The other night when I was getting undressed for bed, Py decided to jump in my discarded jeans and roll around in the crotch. I watched for a few minutes 1) glad I was not wearing the jeans and 2) finding it a little unsettling that he was having so much fun rolling around in my pants 3) thankful I didn’t have to yell, “No wrestling with my jean’s crotch in the bed!”