Dear Cats, Boyfriends, and Bed Hogs,
Did you sleep well? Fine. That’s just fine. Please, tell me, were you comfortable? Good. Very good. My darlings I must ask, and please, if it is too much of an inconvenience, feel free not to answer. Just as you feel free not to…well, anyway.
Dearest cat and love of my life, why is it that last night, along with all other nights, you are inclined to sleep within a millimeter of me on each side? Forcing me into a sort of human-cat sarcophagus? Why is it that when I try to move or attempt the slightest adjustment, the two of you suck into me simultaneously as though we are all part of a neodymium magnet toy? Why is it that the hotter the bed gets, the more snuggling you feel is required?
Answer me this, precious kitty, when you take advantage of an entire one bedroom apartment, using it to frolic and play as you wish, jumping from one windowsill to the next, lounging atop the closet, squeezing into spaces the human eye could not know existed, why is it that the nook of my legs, between my calf and thigh, seems to be the most logical place for you to sleep? And why, my short, furry, four-legged friend, do you find it so incredibly distasteful that I, a sufferer of arthritic knees, a symptom of lyme disease, which you have already claimed to be a skeptic of, why do you find it so obnoxious that I should want to lengthen my legs if only every three hours? Please, do not get the impression that I haven’t done my fair share of contemplating the matter. After much, I have come to the conclusion that it is not necessary for you to sleep sprawled out, stretched to your fullest. Filling the capacity of the bed with at least one paw or tip of the tail. Furthermore, your morning stretches with your wide, deep yawns are simply a means of pouring salt in my lack of sleep.
And you, my lovely man, knight in shining armor, my handsome beau, you sleep so soundly. Like a cherub upon a cumulus cloud. Mouth open, steady exhales of “Hooocccccckkks” and “Gaaaaaaaaws” in and out, in and out. Yet, every morning you complain of my tossing and turning. My kicking and squirming. But, love, I promise you, between you and our feline companion, I am rendered completely helpless. Think of me as a paraplegic, better yet, a corpse. I can not move. I couldn’t move if I tried. Pray there never be an emergency and I be the only one to know it, because it would end very, very badly for all three of us.
Darling, you are a 6 foot something tall man with a firm, athletic build. Baby cakes, when you curl up in the fetal position, drifting into your deepest sleep, you are approximately three feet in width, from the tips of your toes to tail bone, taking up 3/4 of our full size bed.
With that said, I am simply suggesting-no, inquiring that perhaps the two of you could discuss this matter. Perhaps you could find a way to allow me an inch or two-an inch. An inch would be fine. On either side. Maybe. This is a mere, hypothetical inquiry.
I would like to confirm that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed sleeping in our bed and, alas, I would not choose to sleep elsewhere. But, I do feel, as contributor of half the rent and chef of most meals, I am entitled to at least 1/4.
With love, hugs, and kisses,
P.S. Below I have provided a diagram. Please, make adjustments as seen fit.