Where did the tiny little bundles of fur I carried home in one hand after the dog attack go? You do remember; those cute little mewing things I bottle fed every four hours. Where did they go?
I awoke, my neck at an odd angle having moved from crick to cricket to locust singing the Paaaain song in Soprano in the key of G it's sharp. Not only that, but the odd angle of my head had caused me to bite down on the infected tooth which had joined the opera with a baritone rumble suggesting I would not forget its presence for hours to come. It appeared Napoleon had managed to confiscate my ENTIRE king sized microbead pillow and had managed to shove me off of it onto the mattress.
As the fog blew out across my sea of consciousness, I realized I was squished into one corner of the bed, teetering precariously on the edge of a broken hip on the cold, very hard tile of a floor. I gradually pushed toward the other side of the bed through the sea of fur bodies like a lumbering ice breaker and found myself wondering where those tiny little kittens I saved from certain death had gotten to as they sure weren't the gigantic fur plague that now threatened to take over my entire bed. It was then I uttered the vow of all cat lovers: "I must get a bigger bed!"
I oozed, parting the heaving mass of fur, from the bed and stumbled into the kitchen where I employed the secret weapon of all cat owners to reclaim my bed without the use of nuclear weapons. I popped the top on a forbidden can of junk cat food. Instantly, the kitchen, which resembles an undersized postage stamp, was seething with screeching felines soothed only by the reassuring plop of a wet can of something hitting their clean plate. I dove for the door to the bedroom and reclaimed my rightful spot as queen of the bed but alas, Morpheus had left without even a kiss and retreated to a realm without cats to favor another with his sweet embrace....and so I write...and so they slurp....I really do think they are working together but I can't prove it, yet.