If I’m lucky, a furry someone will join me at bedtime while I read before going to sleep. This is one of the best times of my day. Perhaps Birdie will curl up in the bowl of my feet which she is contractually obligated to keep warm. Maybe Miles will spoon my hip, or Sookie will sit aloofly on a nearby pillow waiting for me to make the wrong noise (She has panicked at an overly loud scritch of pages turning.) or gesture.
Olivia rarely joins me. If she does, she’ll demand to be under the covers, curl up perfectly beside me then break my heart a minute later when she decides I’m smothering her and she must leave now.
I usually know that she’s in the room also snuggling into bed because I can hear her steady purr as she kneads her soft cat bed. However, as I lay reading Tom Cox’s Close Encounters of the Furred Kind about his own cats’ adventures and his epic walks across the English country side, I wasn’t hearing the normal bigger-than-8-pounds Olivia purr.
I was instead eavesdropping on a conversation that involved a lot of chirps, brrrrrrrtts, and meeps. The only two in the house who can sustain a civil word without hissing at each other are Olivia and Miles. Putting down Tom’s tales of George, Roscoe, and The Bear (you might know The Bear from My Cat is Sad), I rolled over to see what was going on.
Olivia’s face says it all. Embarrassment for her friend followed by a studious attempt to visually communicate that he needed to cut it out, and finally a frustrated, “STOP HUMPING MY BED YOU DAFT WEIRDO!” Brain was full of British-y wording at that moment.
To his credit, Miles does not get romantic with his resident ladies beyond the occasional nap cuddle and some very forceful grooming. He saves his intensest feelings for a blanket on the couch, a stuffed cat that looks like Olivia- she does not take this as a compliment- and Olivia’s very squishy and soft bed. Knowing him, it could be a texture thing.