Why having a cat means you have (relatively) clean feet
I woke up at 4.13 this morning.
I tossed and turned until 5.01, when I finally gave up, drifted into the kitchen and had a glass of water, checked my email, and was about to see what was happening on Facebook at that hour of the morning when I heard creaks from the bedroom. I worried that Sylvain was getting up to check on me, but it turned out to be Symphony who thought that 5.01 in the morning was the best time for cuddles.
So we went back to bed, where she lay on my chest, her nose against my cheek, purring. But of course, just as I started to drift off to sleep, she wandered off to sit on the buffet, where she began chewing on plastic (her code for, "I'm so hungry and poor and neglected that the only thing I have to eat is this plastic which I will chew on as loudly as I can to wake them up and maybe they'll think about feeding poor 'lil old me"). So I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen, where I poured croquettes, one by one, into her food bowl, aided by the surprisingly bright blue light of my computer mouse in the room next door.
Sadly, when I stumbled out again a few minutes later, having been roused by a suspiciously familiar vomiting noise, the pulsating blue light of the computer mouse didn't guide me in the right direction and I stepped right in the puddle of cat vomit.
5.42 and I was back in bed.
With clean feet.