Sunday morning . .

five AM, and on Sunday, we sleep in. No alarm clock. Only the sound of my beloved gently snoring, the pitterpatter of rain on the roof. The air is cool, the bed is warm and I'm coasting in that magical state half between dream and conscious(that place where when all the little id-jits get to come out and play with my creativity) when the drowsy peace of the morning is rent by the skitter of claws on hardwood as Newton's third law of motion comes into effect and impetuous south-directed momentum is changed to east-directed momentum on a relatively slick surface. With a blood-curdling squeak, the fierce Manxian warcat hits the bed like an eleven pound fur-covered cannon ball, pounces on my belly, vaults to the headboard shelf, squeaks again ("Crivvens!") then hurls herself down onto my belly, his belly, and off out of the room, pursued by the other two cats who had been quietly sleeping with us.

"Uhhhh?" my beloved querries.

"Pepper," I reply.

"Mmmm." He rolls to his side and pulls the covers up to his ear.

Two minutes later, Fly comes in, grumbling. Anyone who has lived with cats knows the sound of cat grumbles. Anyone who doesn't know the sound wouldn't understand if I wrote them out. I feel the bed shake as his fourteen pound ponderosity mounts the mattress. Grumbling,("Damn kids. There ARE no brain-sucking vampire squirrels. I got up for nothing") he walks across the bottom of the bed and up my side, then plops his black velvet butt down next to the pillow and stares at me, thinking fiercely, "Hat."

I groan quietly, but submit to his command and shift down in the bed till most of the pillow is free. He then drapes himself around the top of my head, taking full advantage of the warmth in the pillow space I have vacated.

Meanwhile Pepper and Ben are experimenting with their old buddy, Gravity. Sundry small thumps, crashes, and clatters errupt from different areas of the house. I refuse to rise and deal with it. Instead, I drowsily try to figure, from the sound, partially muffled by cat feet over my ears, what the different sounds mean. That must be the pencil can next to the phone. And that's the magazine basket again. Brief silence, then, Crash,Rattle,prangtingtingtingting.... Hmm. The recycling bin? That sure sounds like catfood cans rolling around on the kitchen floor. No. I will not get up.

Oh drat. Fly, our only indoor/outdoor cat has fleas! Ewww, now I feel imaginary tiny beasties prancing all over my skin. Is it annoying enough to get up and deal with? Is it? Well, is(yawn) zzzzit?

6AM: With a blood-curdling squeak, the fierce Manxian warcat hits the bed, . . .