There are some days where insomnia and a desire to not have a sleeping pill hang over can be worth the sleep deprivation.
In my apartment is a little black cat named Maggie. Maybe 8lbs at most, having been the runt of one's litter, she's terrified of Cooper, the 75lbs mutt I brought home last month. She's done nothing but hiss and hide under the bed. The other cat, Maurice, has no issues with the dog and will team up with the rabbit to terrorize the poor thing. Maggie is so not interested in him. Or, so I thought.
As I'm lying in bed listening to the sound of the rain and reorganizing my hard drive, I see a tiny little head pop up from under the bed. Oh? Has Maggie decided she's going to emerge and be friendly? I merely lie in bed and watch as she creeps over to the slumbering dog and sits in front of his face.
I will now point out that I named her after Margaret Thatcher two years ago in an attempt to draw some humor into my father's life. And it was a very appropriate name for the little beast.
She raises her paw and bats him on the nose. No claws, but hard enough to make him jump and growl at her.
Great, it's the Falklands war in my bed. She looks at me, hisses, and darts under the bed to whine. Cooper, meanwhile, has decided that he wants to play too and is trying to stuff himself in the six inch gap between the floor and the frame. Unsuccessfully.
And now he's stuck. The little girl knew exactly what she was at, the poor dog. Leaving me to drag his sorry hide from under the bed and outside for a walk. Did I mention it's raining?
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