So Simon's latest thing is jumping down the laundry chute. He paws open the door and then dives down into the laundry piled in the basket at the bottom. One of these times the laundry basket is going to be empty and the little fucker is going to break his leg.

Once he jumps down, he is stuck in the basement until one of us comes home and discovers he's missing. When we open the basement door, he is sitting there on the top step, patiently waiting. He looks up at us like "Hi!" and then rushes past and heads directly for the damn laundry chute again, flinging his furry body headfirst down the hole before either of us can stop him. He's like a toddler on a slide, running up the ladder and sliding down, running up and sliding down, over and over again. Except he's not a toddler. He's a cat, jumping down the laundry chute. Which is weird. And annoying.

This weekend we installed a latch on the door. So far it seems to be working, but I'm not convinced it will hold for long. One of Maylee's idiosyncrasies is that the door to the bathroom closet (where the laundry chute is) MUST BE OPEN. She will walk into the room, open the closet door, and then walk out. You can imagine how a neurotic person like me feels about doors standing open - they drive me crazy. So I shut the door. And then Maylee opens it. So I shut it. And Maylee opens it. So I shut it. And now Simon opens it, too. So I shut it. For now, the door is staying closed with the latch. But it's making Maylee insane. She keeps trying to pry it open, and sooner or later her persistence is going to pay off. And then I'll be back to closing the damn door every 5 minutes. And Simon will be back to plummeting down the laundry chute.

I swear the universe gave me these particular cats as punishment for not wanting kids.

There's been some discussion amongst my circle of blogfriends (specifically here and here) about overprotective parenting. I don't have a strong opinion on the subject and don't think I'm qualified, without kids, to say much about it anyway. But it has made me consider where I would fall, if I were a mother. Probably the way I treat my cats is a pretty good indicator of the type of parent I would be, which is to say a total overprotective pushover.

There's plenty of evidence of this throughout my blog. But just to prove the point...

I take them outside on harnesses. Because I fear for their safety too much to let them roam alone, but I also feel guilty about depriving them from experiencing the great outdoors. So I put all three cats in harnesses with leashes and let them play in the backyard. Supervised, mind you. Because a bird of prey could swoop down and snatch one up at any moment. (No really. I read that somewhere.) Or a dog could run over and attack them. And let's not forget Grady... Plus, they always end up getting wound around things and each other and need untangling. It would actually be much simpler if I just took one out at a time, but I always take all three because I want to be fair and equitable. I cannot take sad pathetic feline faces staring out at me through the window.

I only give them filtered water to drink. Sure, if they were strays they'd drink out of muddy streams and mosquito-infested gutters. But luckily for them, they are my babies. And my babies deserve Brita.

I take them to the vet. A lot. Rob is convinced the main purpose of the vet is to treat neurotic pet owners, not any physical ailment of the pet itself. This is a notion at which I scoff, although he may have a point. I recently took Bridget to the vet because I was very concerned she had been losing weight. I was certain it was either hyperthyroidism or diabetes. They ran a bunch of tests, and everything came back fine. The vet's $200 diagnosis was that perhaps I should just feed her more.

There are strict safety rules in our house about not leaving various items (ribbon, twist-ties, Q-tips) lying about or within feline reach. This morning I asked Rob to put away a plastic bag that was on the floor because one of the cats might play in it and suffocate. (No really. It could happen.) I have an eye like a hawk for this sort of stuff. And I admit to taking this too far at other people's houses - I cannot resist pointing out to people the cat dangers that are lurking in their homes. I have lectured my own mother, who successfully raised two healthy children, about a piece of string I found on her living room floor. Didn't she realize if her cat swallowed that it could cut through the intestines?! I realize how completely annoying this must be, but I am compelled. I mean, it takes a village, right?

I leave very detailed cat-care instructions when we go on a trip. You would think our catsitters were caring for an invalid on life support. But there is a lot to know! Bridget has special food, and Maylee has to be fed first or she gets confused, and Simon will eat Bridget's food if he's not supervised. It is very complicated, people. And this is simple compared to the usual feeding system! My instructions don't even mention the after-school snack I give the cats every day when I come home from work.

Clearly, I'm a wee bit overprotective. I acknowledge this. And I could list a hundred ways in which I'm also a complete pushover. Like the kitchen cabinet that I almost relinquished to Simon recently because he came to love sitting in it so much while all the doors were off during the renovation. When we went to put the doors back on, I seriously considered leaving them off that cabinet and putting a cat bed in there instead of the stuff that is supposed to be stored there. Because that's his new special place! How cruel to take that away from him! But in the end, I did reclaim the cabinet. (At least for now.) So see? I'm normal.

One of our cats has a habit of wailing in the wee hours of the morning. This only lasts a few minutes, although sometimes it will occur multiple times a night. It's different from the sound of a cat in heat - it's more melodious than that, a meow-yowling that is insistent and expressive, the closest a cat can come to yodeling. MeOW-eYOW EYOOOOWWWWWW. E-yow-meOW? MeOW-yow-reee-YOWWWW!! The sound comes from the depths of the house, just loud enough and long enough to awaken us, although we always fall right back to sleep. I'm not even sure which cat it is. I know it's not Bridget, because she sleeps the entire night on our bed. I suspect Simon, because it sounds most like his voice and he is just off kilter enough to howl throughout the house for no good reason.

Or maybe there is a good reason, although I could not tell you what it is. There have been a few times when the meows sounded so distressed that I hopped out of bed and searched the house for the source, certain I would find Maylee with her head stuck through the banister or Simon sprawled at the bottom of the laundry chute. But, the meowing would stop when my feet hit the floor and I would discover Simon and Maylee sitting silently in the living room, looking up innocently at me like, "What? We're just chillin' here on the hardwood, yo."

Monday night the warbling was particularly persistent. I considered investigating the situation, but knew the cat was just crying wolf. So I tried to tune it out. Which was difficult, because this was an aria like none other, with vibrato and trills impossible to ignore. Even Bridget, who was sleeping soundly at the foot of the bed, stirred.

Now, Bridget is Top Dog around here. (Except that she's, you know, a cat.) She's the firstborn feline, and she's clearly in charge. Simon and Maylee kiss her paws and throw petals on her path. She can barely abide them, but they adore her. Simon will, in fact, start purring when she walks into the room.

So, the Monday night MEOW-yow-YOWWWWWing continued and Bridget shifted and sighed and finally stood. I heard her jump to the floor and pad towards the living room. And then, silence. The howling hushed, and I happily went back to sleep.

Last night Rob and I awoke to another rendition of the same refrain. "Rrmmph," I complained into my pillow. Bridget was curled against my belly. She lifted her head to listen, and then leapt off the bed. I could envision her marching out there, giving a stern glare and growling, "Shut. The Fuck. UP."

The serenade stopped. And then Bridget was back, bounding onto the bed and settling into her spot. I swear I saw her brush the palms of her paws against each other, like, "Well, that oughta take care of that." And it did. We had sweet silence for the rest of the night.

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.

Since Bridget's pee problems began, closely monitoring her litter habits has become part of everyday life. Months ago I moved one of the litter boxes to a place downstairs where I could easily hear if a cat started scratching in the litter, so that I wouldn't miss any of Bridget's trips. For months and months I have been attentive to the litter box, and Rob knows to pay attention, too. Whenever Bridget places a paw in the box, one of us is watching.

Actually, we don't even need to watch anymore. If we're in the other room and see Bridget head for the litter box, we can tell if all is well just by listening. We wait while she scratches, and then we listen for the sound of the urine stream. Silence after the scratching is bad, because that means she wasn't able to pee, although fortunately that hasn't happened for awhile. But if we hear peeing, there is much kitty-praise and rejoicing.

The other night I woke up and went to the bathroom, and my getting in and out of bed woke up Rob, too. Soon after we had settled back down to go to sleep, I heard scratching in the litter box. I figured it was Bridget, because I'd seen her near the litter box when I got up, so I strained my ears to listen. There was a pause after the scratching, and then I heard the gush. It was a rather long gushing. And then it tapered off and I heard the scratch, scratch of the covering-up.

And then next to me, with his face buried against my back, Rob murmured, "That was a good one."

I sighed contently. "Yeah, it was. It lasted so long!"

And then I giggled, realizing that while many couples have perhaps had that very conversation in the middle of the night, never in the history of pillow talk has the topic been listening to the cat pee.

Photo taken by Rob

I sometimes think about what our cats would be like if they were kids. Which is probably weird, but whatever.

In a preschool class, Maylee would be the kid trying to fit the square block into the round hole, the cute but clueless one with absent, doelike eyes and a head constantly cocked sideways in confusion. Preferring to be in her own little world, she'd sit alone at a table coloring, ankles daintily crossed.

Simon would be the shy one who hides behind his mom's leg when strangers are speaking to him, the timid kid who wants to play with the others but tends to get overlooked or ignored. A picky eater, he'd refuse to try new foods at lunch but demonstrate a peculiar propensity for eating rubber bands (surely just to get attention).

And Bridget would be the one bossing everyone else around, stealing toys, demanding more snacks, and shrieking at the top of her lungs when she doesn't get her way. And then charming the teacher by giving her hugs and hand-picked flowers, and crawling into her lap during storytime, so as to remain the teacher's pet.

• frantically weed flower beds (only necessary if guests include gardening-guru mother-in-law)




• vacuum sofa and chair (only necessary if guests include cat-allergic father-in-law)




• dust dining room chair seats to remove accumulated cat fur




• put out clean set of placemats; if set is in laundry, flip current ones to other side; if other side has food stains, flip back over, arrange placemats so that dirtiest one is at own seat, and hope guests don't notice




• clean kitchen counters; return a few minutes later to discover paw prints all over damp surface; yell at cats, then clean counters again (repeat)




• gather magazines, unopened mail, post-it notes, etc that are strewn about and shove into bedroom closet; if closet is already crammed full, stack under bed




• walk through house and close doors to all rooms that cannot be saved




• sweep!




• mop kitchen and then repeatedly walk across wet floor because everything that needs to be done happens to require a trip to or through kitchen and there is no time to wait!




• wave kitchen door back and forth to get air moving so house won't smell like liquid floor cleaner and guests will assume house is always this immaculate and not that cleaning occurred just because they were coming over




• pause for glass of wine (repeat)




• clean bathroom sink and toilet; pull shower curtain closed, but first check drain for hair as certainly somebody will be nosy enough to inspect shower for cleanliness (feel slight twinge of guilt for having, in the past, done this very thing)




• respond to husband's "I'm on my way home" phone call with desperate "Hurry!"




• remove baking pan from under cats' water bowl, for purpose of catching spills, because looks tacky (unless guests include mother-in-law, who suggested baking-pan-solution)




• switch table centerpiece to one that was gift from brother (only necessary if guests include brother)




• prepare plate of cheese and crackers for guests to munch on (and so as to appear as if there's been plenty of spare time)




• shoo cats away from cheese (repeat)




• assign husband to salad-making and any remaining food-related tasks when he arrives home




• hide all dirty cooking items in dishwasher, oven (if not being used for food preparation), refrigerator, microwave, pantry, etc




• scold cat who has, in past five minutes, made it a point to lie on Every Single Placemat




• lint roll placemats




• wipe canister lids which get dusty because canisters are empty and so never used, but kept on counter because they look nice




• windex windows where cats sit and leave nose prints




• pause to consider how much less cleaning would be required if there were no cats (feel slight twinge of guilt for momentarily liking idea of life without cats)




• cut flowers for vase




• straighten welcome mat so it is perfectly aligned with door




• run into bedroom to change into decent clothes upon hearing guests pull into driveway