I crept into the house the other night around 2:00. Willie had been asleep since, oh, two days prior. Willie likes his sleep, while I, for reasons unclear, still act as if going to bed is a punishment.
Miss out on the nightlife?
Still, I am nothing if not considerate when I crawl into the house at 2:00 a.m. I cease singing as I reach the second floor, have been known to remove my tap shoes before hitting the hardwood floor, and quite often muffle my bemused mutterings. This is difficult for me to do, as I think I’m terribly funny at that time of night and have been known to be laughing when I enter a room.
I entered the bedroom on large, drunken cat paws.
“Shhhhh, Willie, “ I hissed. “I’m home.”
“????” Willie made what could only be interpreted as a questioning grunt.
“Me. It’s me. I’m home.”
This is an approximation of Willie’s snoring.
I got into bed, where the Hunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnchunnnnnnnnnnnnnch sound rose to decibels noted by the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health to cause one to pull on one’s ears in confusion. Protective muffling of some sort is recommended.
I recommend a pillow over the nose and mouth.
“Roll over,” I whispered.
“Sphurbim?” It was Willie’s stock answer to anything asked while he’s sleeping. In my estimation it covers everything from “yes, dear” to “wallet’s on my dresser” to “no, no, absolutely you may take my car”.
“That’s right,” I affirmed. “Sphurbim. Roll over. Belly sleepin’ sphurbim time.”
Willie grunted softly, a sign either that he agrees, he disagrees, or that he’s unconscious. I don’t look too deeply into it.
He rolls onto his belly.
Of course, that’s the lovely bit about going to bed with a slight buzz. He’s sure to resume his snoring in the next few minutes – and I’m sure to be asleep.
7 hours ago