Tag Archives: bed

Bed Time Antics And Other High Jinks


Smudge lounging on the bed.

After being stomped and prodded on this morning, followed by a fluffy tail placed strategically close to my face, I promptly got up. Half an hour later, I find Smudge still lounging on the bed contemplating his day.

He is a paradox—his actions both predictable and unexpected. Sometimes early morning, he will snuggle on the bed making himself comfy. Yesterday, as I rolled over on my side, Smudge bulldozed his way between a gap in the covers beside me. Turning around, he parked his head on the pillow, his body, hidden under the doona. The big mog has always been a connoisseur of comfort. He has numerous beds, his own rug and regularly uses my belly as a makeshift cushion. During winter, he hogs the heater.

Last night before getting ready for bed, I let Smudge out hoping that he’d do his business in the garden. Later, I checked the opened, front door, his usual sleeping spots, and called out his name several times. Ten minutes later, I found him hiding in the kitchen.


Snoozing again and ‘those claws’.

I was typing this entry at my desk when Smudge reached up and spiked my thigh. Not happy! As he released his paw, a claw remained caught in my pants. The harder he pulled, the deeper it became embedded in the fabric. While trying to separate us, I slowly slid off the chair, but he kept tugging. I’m embarrassed to say that after dropping my pants, Smudge finally managed to draw his paw free.

The Human.


Moggie Joker


Smudge looking innocent sitting on a towel on top of a heating duct.

According to Smudge, I’m responsible for his care and comfort. Unfortunately, I’m also the constant source of his amusement.

His on again/off again use of the new, house-litter tray—I keep the flap open with a cushion—is exasperating. Lately for entertainment, Smudge deliberately steps inside and churns up the fresh litter before quickly making an exit. Of course, he’s anticipating that I’ll check to see if he’s used the tray again. Cleaning it is not one of my favourite pastimes. ‘Tricked again!’

It’s late, I’m in bed typing on my laptop when he suddenly jumps up and tries to bulldoze his head into the folds of the doona. Finally, after stomping around, he’s curled up at my feet.


Churning up the kitty litter.

Smudge will sit at the front door testing how many times I’ll spend opening  and closing the door for him. Or, sprawled across his rug, I’ll toss him a small, rubber ball and immediately he whacks it with his right paw. Airborne, it reaches the dining room, lands near the buffet, bounces and rolls underneath the dining table and chairs. He yawns, as I’m expected to retrieve it. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

The other morning after his breakfast, he was loitering in the hallway when I sauntered past. Suddenly, he extended his paw and I tripped over. Surprised, I stood up and turned around. ‘Why did you do that for?’

Although sitting upright and looking nonchalant, I detected a glint in his eyes. ‘Gotch ya!’

The Human.

Sleep – I Wish



A connoisseur of comfort, Smudge has many sleeping spots around the house. His favourite places are an armchair and the couch, the bottom shelf in the hall cupboard, on top of an overnight bag and of course, my bed – mostly when I’m absent.

Due to my study efforts and feeling ignored, he is sleeping back on the bed at night with me. I’d prefer that he didn’t because having a bony chin stuck into my leg is really uncomfortable. I’m a restless sleeper and with Smudge on the bed, I feel guilty turning on my side, rolling onto my back and constantly turning while he stays curled up in the same position for ages.

Recently, I can’t tolerate the weight of the doona on my sore foot, especially when a hefty moggie is leaning on my ankle.


Smudge’s sheet roll.

Early each morning after torturing me to get his breakfast, Smudge will then go outside and patrol his territory. In no time, he will return to bed. When I’m up again he follows me, but sometimes the slacker will snooze for another hour.

Often I wake-up and find myself on one side of the mattress, while the furball is in the centre of the bed, curled up, his eyes and nose hidden underneath a fluffy tail. Yesterday, I found myself balanced on the edge of the bed – literally on a quarter of the mattress – so I shoved him over. Soon Smudge began pawing at my cheeks and flicking his tail across my face.

The Human.






Smudge the next day sitting on my story drafts.

Smudge, the next day sitting on my work.

Numerous drafts of my story lie on the floor. Smudge is sitting on the last one, which I attempt to retrieve as I need to check something. He’s unimpressed and doesn’t move, as I have been keeping him awake with my noise and the light. Eventually, he relents and curls up in the tub chair.

It’s after 2.30 am, so I complete my bathroom routine and fall into bed. However, sleep is absent as I can’t get comfortable and thoughts continue to roll around in my head.


Smudge snoozing.

At 6.00 am the mantle clock chimes and I gasp and raise my head, disturbed by a weight on my body. Smudge has plopped himself horizontally across my chest. It’s hard to breathe when a 4.5 kg furball has pinned you down. I manage to turn slightly hoping that he’ll slide off, but he clings on with extended claws. ‘Owhh!’ I’m now fully awake and push him off.

In an attempt to ignore my tormenter, I wrap the doona around my body and bury my face into the pillow, but Smudge hasn’t given up and whacks me in the head. I turn around and his face is 30 cm away from mine, his pupils dilated. After a few seconds of eyeballing each other, he looks away and jumps off the bed. Finally, I’m left in peace… but later I’m woken by a loud, rumbling sound. There are workmen outside operating an excavating machine and Smudge is back on the bed again.

The Human.


Opps, my tail!

Opps, my tail! 

Lion’s Paws, what was that? I bolt off the bed and try and squeeze behind the dressing table, but get stuck and scratch the wall. There’s that loud crack again! I squish through and wriggle underneath the dresser, the tips of my ears just touching the bottom drawer. The human is awake and rolls out of bed. ‘Are you okay?’ She crouches on all fours, her nose pressed to the floor. I reach out and try and swipe her. ‘Missed?’ she grunts. The human gets up and thumps down the hall. She returns later with my breakfast.

‘Had a bit of trouble squeezing through? You enjoy your food too much, Smudge. Come out,’ but I stay for ages. I feel safe in my small, dark space, although I’ve forgotten to pull in my tail as you can see.

Lately, the human has been entertaining. There are lots of humans, even mini-ones, whom I’m not particularly fond of. When there’s too much noise, I hide under the bed. The mini-humans want to play all the time. I humour them for a while, but really, I just want to snooze. You’d think after a few hisses, they’d get the message, but really, these mini-ones don’t have much between the ears, so I’ll dive under the dresser.

Nice and toasty!

Nice and toasty! 

The heavy water has stopped falling from the sky. I come out and ‘wolf’ down my breakfast, (pardon the pun), then retreat to the human’s bed. Rolling myself up, I feel safe and comfy.



Love Hurts And A New Bed

Me posing, waiting for Tofu to show-up.

Me posing, waiting for Tofu to show-up.










Every night I groom myself to purr-fection and wait at the front door until the human lets me out. I dash outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tofu, the kitty who lives across the road. She is sleek with a dark coat, white chest and paws. It’s warm outside. Sprinting over the road, I linger in the garden, but Tofu doesn’t show. Ages go by and I head home. The human has left the door  open and I slink inside, my tail low.

‘Did you see your girlfriend?’ The human is sitting on the couch watching the loud box. Reaching out, she flattens the fur on my head. I swipe her hand and then dig my claws into the rug. ‘Hey, stop that,’ she yells. I retreat to the chair in the other room.

Me, still waiting for Tofu.

Me, still waiting for Tofu.








Later, I find the human lying on the couch, making rumbling sounds. I want her to get off, so I can snooze and dream about Tofu—the two of us playing in the moonlight and sharing a mouse. I paw and whack the human’s body heaps of times, but she still rumbles, so I jump up and make myself comfy on my new, squishy bed.

When the human makes a loud growl, I wake up. She blinks, tries to sit up and is surprised to find me curled up on her lap. We stare at each other. Suddenly, the human springs up and I slide onto the floor. I’m not impressed and she complains, rubbing her belly.


Bed Time Checks and Paw Prints

Op-oh, sprung! My paw prints.

Op-oh, sprung with my signature paw prints!








When she’s been working late, the human is hilarious checking on me before she goes to bed. As you know, I have many comfy snoozing places, but a rug on the couch is my usual night-time spot. When the human comes in, she doesn’t turn on the light and crouches down, putting out her big mitt to feel if I’m on the couch. What catnip is she on? Her mitt is above my head, so I swipe it. Immediately, she yells and pulls back her arm.

‘You’re not very nice… Wondered if you were here.’

Part of our daily routine are games of chasey. Afterwards, I’ll be tuckered out and will lap up pools of fresh water from the giant water bowl after the human has washed. I don’t mind getting my paws wet. It tastes better that the water in my own bowl. When the human gets up the next day, she discovers muddy paw prints in the giant bowl, on the shiny floor and down the hall.

‘Smudge!’ She cleans them up when I’m outside doing my business and patrolling the backyard.

Innocent me.

Innocent me.









Scooting up the path, I dash inside, lap up some more water and retire to the lounge. My head is turned as I’m grooming my left shoulder. The human appears and is yelling again. I look up. ‘What?’ and continue to clean my fur. She shakes her head and leaves the room. Humans… Sometimes dumb things upset them.