An Ode to My Little Plague.



Gracie Lu. Plauge.



I live with a 12 pound, 4 legged, gray and white tabby plague named Gracie. And I say plague with love.

She’s klutzy.

She’s bossy.

She pokes you with tiny daggers of death.

She squeaks and sings at you with what I am pretty sure is foul language in the language of cat.

She’s the most adorable thing you will ever meet.

And by meet, I mean in the 8.7 seconds she allows you to hold her before she has to GET DOWN NOW! It’s akin to holding a rodeo bull with claws.

This morning she was particularly plague-y.

I have to be at work at 6am Sunday mornings. It’s ungodly, I know, but hey! It’s a living. Unfortunately due to my weeknight work schedule, my body just doesn’t want to sleep until 1 or 2am. Any suggestions for a 9pm bedtime let me know. I’m not crazy about drugs, and vodka, while delicious, isn’t the solution either.

Tonight was no different; I finally fall asleep at 2am.

2:45am. I’m awakened by a plastic bag rattling, followed by cat bodies tearing around the bedroom. Then blessed silence. I fall asleep again.

3:30am. A tail is slapping me in the face. I open an eye to find the little darling sitting above my head on the headboard, with no real purpose other then to smack me in the face with her tail. “Yes?”, I ask. “MEEOOOOOORRWWW” she yells at me. I roll my eyes and proceed to pull the covers over my head.

4 am. More bag rattling. Pause. I fall back to sleep, within 30 seconds there is more bag rattling. After 5 minutes I can’t take any more, and turn on the light. There she sits next to a Target bag, batting around her favorite mousie that she has placed into said Target bag. I grab it and throw it into the hallway which then Gracie chases after merrily. 5 minutes later after I have fallen asleep again, she’s back. The mouse is back in the bag. The bag is rattling, and I’m staring at the ceiling, calling out “Why Baby Jesus?! WHY?!”

And because it is now 4:10am, Baby Jesus doesn’t answer because even he gets to sleep.

I crawl out of bed again, the mousie go flying into the hallway, Gracie goes tearing after it and the bag goes in the trash. Which, let’s be honest, should have been there in the first place.

4:45am I am awaken once again by Gracie, meowing and carrying on. It sounds as if she is dying. Being the concerned mother that I am, I swear and ask “now what?!” The bed has now become a jungle gym, and she is bouncing over me, meowing loudly. She’s begging, and pleading and being overly dramatic. Yes, cats are dramatic. Now I’m assuming she’s hungry, and bad mother that I am forgot to check the food bowl last night. So I get out bed, again, head to the kitchen and find the bowl still full with kitten kibble.



Gracie prefers down comforters and pillows to posh cat beds.



Grumbling, I stagger back to the bedroom, where I now find THAT LITTLE BEGGER IS HAPPILY CURLED UP IN THE STILL WARM SPOT THAT I HAD JUST VACATED.

I realized, I was in an episode of Simon’s Cat and didn’t even know it.