It's four AM and I'm in a deep, coma-like sleep that I've been nursing since falling asleep and drooling on my poor husband at ten.
I've just gotten to the good bits in my dream, and had a realization about a plot line so unique, so surreal and so twisted that it would be an instant best seller!
That's when, from the depths of REM I hear it. A sound so familiar to pet owners that not even the deepest sleep can be spared.
Phoebe's about to puke.
On my head.
I sit up and - being the loving parental unit I am - scoop her up and toss her to the floor. Don't judge me! I wasn't the one about to yak on Tommy Hilfiger Crest Collection sheets! I wasn't the feline who decided that the bestest, most niftiest place in all of the house to hock up a hairball would be on my caretaker's head! I mean, c'mon! I've heard of "don't bite the hand that feeds you," but why isn't there some ancient proverb that says "don't puke on it either"?!
I flip on the light, grab my glasses and reach for a paper towel that held the contents of my apple dinner. Luckily for me, it's an easy clean up and I'm hopping back in bed before too long. Phoebe looks at me lovingly from my spot on the bed. Harry, on the other hand, is completely oblivious. He slept, man panties in a bunch, t-shirt up to his armpits with one hand tucked under his side and the other over his face while lying spread eagle and gracefully snoring.
Two hours later, I'm applying eye liner to puffy eyelids. "So, how'd ya sleep, babycakeshead?" I postulate to the man curled up in the bottom of the shower.
"Good. Did you?" he asked me. The spray is hitting him in the face a la self-inflicted Chinese water torture.
"Sure did. That is, until Phoebe tried to launch a hairball on to my head."
"I don't remember that," he said.
"You slept through it. From beginning to end. And you snored."
"Sorry," he said, in a voice that was neither sorry nor un-amused.
Good thing I've yet to throw away that paper towel. :)