Wrestling with Lola at 3:00 a.m.

Lola is the most erratic of our three cats. She’s the one whose pupils dilate to an alarming size as she stares at a point, just over your left shoulder, where a knife-wielding maniac has obviously taken up residence. She goes from 0 to feline parkour in less than a second. And she loves, loves, loves kneading your chest and throat at 3:00 a.m. 

Last night, as Lola was aggressively palpating my jugular with her forepaws and digging her needle sharp back claws into my torso, I physically encouraged her to move towards the end of the bed. I suspect that, in my sleep-drugged need to redistribute said cat, I probably grabbed her under her little cat armpits and shot-putted her from my chest. 

As I was settling back in to sleep, there was an odor. In the midst of my near comatose state, I thought to myself “I just dragged her ass against my pillow.” Doing my best to ignore the whiff of cat ass, I turned towards David’s side of the bed and eventually went back to sleep. 

This morning? I discovered that in my late-night jouncing of wee Lola – she had panicked. With her ass. Channeling the Archbishop of Canterbury, she basically used her ass as an aspergillum and delicately sprinkled anal gland fluid (dry heave) around the area from which she was evicted. I give thanks to every deity in the universe that she is not a Jackson Pollock fan… and that we had bleach in the house.