Like your other meowrvellous essays, Christine, this one too resonated with me. Ever since our then-7 weeks-old catbaby Greything plonked himself on my chest while I was about to sleep, made bread on my throat and suckled on my three-day-old stubble, I have been under a near-complete mind control by both our catbabies, Greything and Clementine.
Throughout the night, both of 'em like changing landscapes for resting their bodies; they shift amongst the bed in our guest room, various chairs and seats, fluffy cat beds, as well as the bed my wife and I sleep in—in no particular order—and they have taught us well to tolerate it all for the sake those precious few moments when they deign to snuggle against us, allow us to rub their bellehs, and fall asleep on our arms or legs emitting itty-bitty snores.
These are the moments that make worthwhile every single muffled scream we have let out when they have executed aerial moves worthy of Simone Biles to land strategically right on top of boobs or family jewels in the dead of the night, all 15—20 pounds of two beclawed fluffballs.
Mind control? Hell, yeah. Otherwise, why else would I—every single night, twice every night—get up from bed and be led by one cat, while beckoning the other, to their food dispenser placed in the basement, just so that they can have me around while they chow down with gusto? Why else would I not mind doing this, like, ever?