Make No Mistake, He’s Mine

In her own unique way, Cinnamon has been mourning the passing of Nutmeg. It appears to have taken the form of being extra-clingy to her humans, or wandering the house looking for her former room-mate, not finding him, and howling in a more “soulful” that usual voice.

One night in particular she was waking up at least once an hour, popping out from her usual under the covers sleeping position, and howling by our ears.  Apparently, another couple of times she also decided to technicolour yawn. The first time was somewhere around the 3:00am mark. Tom was on his back and Cinny way laying on his lap, his upper body in the “kill-zone”.

Fortunately for him, at least for this reason, he wasn’t sleeping deeply and heard the up-chuck “guh guh” preamble and managed to send her off the bed before the damage was done. I barely remember it to be honest, because frankly I am a total zombie when I’m woken up suddenly. Luckily Tom is the official gack cleaner in this household, so he mopped it up quickly and we settled back into bed.

He told me later that he had slept fitfully after that, never getting back into a good deep sleep the rest of the night, which probably factored into what played out later that morning. A quick aside; this is a reversal of roles for certain, because he’s normally the one that embraces sleep at the drop of a hat, and I’m generally up reading at some godforsaken hour.

Anyway, that morning (well official morning anyway) I awoke to Tom leaping out of bed exclaiming “SHE DID IT AGAIN!!!” I tried to blink myself awake and went to roll over towards the center of the bed, rolling back just in time when Tom warned me that I was heading straight for a lovely fresh pile of processed kibble.

Paper towel and spray bottle in hand, Tom began to clean up the mess while I lay with my eyes half closed as far from the center of the bed as possible. It took a few seconds to register, but I suddenly realized that I smelled bleach. Tom was just starting to spraying the duvet cover when I cried out “I SMELL BLEACH! IS THAT BLEACH?”

“Noooo” Tom said and shook the bottle he had in his hand at me with a “duh this is the pet spray bottle” gesture. “THAT’S BLEACH!!!! MY $300 SHEETS!!!” I squeaked. Yeah they were my splurge, a set of sheets which I bought from Bed Bath and Beyond that were A.) incredibly marked-down from the original $300, B.) partially paid for by a $100 gift-cert that I won in a contest and C.) SO! EFFING! SOFT! that they were sooo worth the $80 or so I actually spent on them of our own cash. Normally I would never buy such expensive sheets, they are such an impractical luxury.

I gazed down at the white spot quickly forming where once was a beautiful blue and made a sad face. Tom was cursing himself, scolding the cat for keeping him up half the night, and telling me how sorry he was and “You can’t have nice things!”

As I watched the fabric continue to lighten and listened to Tom’s self (and Cinny) flagellation, then I started to giggle. At first admittedly a slightly hysterical reaction to watching a dollar pancake sized white spot form on my once-pristine blue sheets as well as noticing the adorable tiny embossed polka-dots being joined by some white ones from the over-spray.  At that moment the full breadth of the comedic scene played back in my head and I started to REALLY laugh, I mean, how could I not?

Then I did what I always do, I took pictures.

Tom’s “I’m sorry I ruined your sheets face” :


Aaaaand what the boo-boo face was over:

bleach stain on my sheets :(

On the positive side: we will now always know exactly where (what is now) the BOTTOM of the fitted sheet is.

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