Sometime early this morning I woke up to find myself firmly wedged between the heavy, sleeping bodies of Rob and Bridget. This has become how we sleep lately, with Bridget curled snugly against my side and easily taking a full third of the bed.

It didn't used to be this way. For years Bridget slept at our feet, approaching the upper half of the bed only in the mornings to wake us up. But this year, she made the migration to the head of the bed. It started during the months of her pee problem, when she was especially clingy and would seek me out for love any chance she got, including crawling onto my chest as soon as I got into bed. I could tell the days she was feeling especially awful because she'd lie with her whiskers pressed against my cheek.

These days she curls into the concave curve of my belly or back, depending on which way I'm facing. Rarely she will place herself between Rob and I, but most often she stakes claim on my side, pushing me to the middle - and I swear smallest - third of the bed.

I don't have a problem with this. It's a compliment for a cat to sleep among mere mortals. And she is soft and snuggly and I consider us all quite cozy. But Rob apparently begs to differ.

The issue involves the covers. You may recall that this is a major point of contention in our marriage. Only now it seems I am the perpetrator. It's not my fault, really. The problem is that Bridget weighs down the covers on her side of the bed - honestly, they do not budge under her girth. And so when I toss and turn, the sheet and blanket slide from the only side they can - Rob's.

This has been happening for awhile, and I suppose Rob's frustration has been building. Because early this morning as I shifted (carefully, so as not to disturb anyone) onto my back in the tight space between Rob and Bridget, he bellowed into the dark, "WHY DO YOU KEEP TAKING THE COVERS?!" It was a question full of misery and suffering, exclaimed in a tormented tone best befitting Job.

I was a bit taken aback. I mean, Rob never raises his voice. He doesn't get angry. He definitely does not bellow. (To be honest, I suspect he doesn't even remember this. He says all sorts of things when he's asleep. The day before, we had been reading about the dating site iminlikewithyou.com and that night, while we were sleeping, Bridget decided she was hungry and attempted to annoy us awake. And Rob said to her, sleepily but sternly, "Bridget, I'm not in like with you dot com." Which naturally cracked my shit up.)

But moreover, it's not like I'm comfortable here either! I have a space exactly the size of my body - the size of my body when I'm lying on my side, no less! - in which to sleep. Rolling over is extremely difficult, requiring me to lift myself up onto my elbow, hoist my hips around in the air, and then settle back into my tiny little spot as best I can. So excuse me if the goddamn blanket moves a bit, you know? And don't think I haven't noticed how his legs are splayed across half the bed, leaving little room for my own which I can't move anyway because Simon is either curled at my knees or sleeping between them. Frankly, it seems an impossibility that I'm stealing covers given that I so rarely am able to MOVE at all. Not that I'm complaining.

Which I guess is the point - stop complaining! Your neck is cold. My arms are numb. BUT THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT. Other than banish the beasts from the bedroom, which will never happpen because we are total pushovers, the true pussies of the household. And we fear the (wailing, howling, body-flinging, door-scratching) wrath of the neglected feline.