If you’ve never slept with cats, let me paint you a picture. You crawl into bed, ready for the one stretch of peace you’ll get all day, and then… boom. A ten-pound furball plants itself dead center like it pays rent. Another curls up on your pillow, purring straight into your ear. By the time you realize what’s happening, you’re clinging to the mattress edge like you’re starring in a survival movie.
I swear, my cats wait until I’m completely comfortable before they make their move. They don’t just sprawl; they sprawl with intent. Tail across my face, paw digging into my side, one stretched diagonally like they’re trying to take up maximum real estate. Meanwhile, there’s Rex. Snoring peacefully on his half of the bed, totally untouched. The cats never bother him. Oh no, they save all their body heat and dead weight for me.
And don’t tell me to “just move them.” Have you ever tried? They go limp. Full noodle mode. It’s like dragging a sandbag wrapped in claws. The second I shift them, they glare at me with the fury of a thousand suns, jump right back, and plop down again with even more determination. Nico once saw this whole ordeal and said, “Mom, you lost.” And honestly? He’s right.
It’s not even the physical space that gets me—it’s the psychological warfare. I’ll be half-asleep, finally drifting, when one of them starts the slow kneading routine. On my stomach. Or worse, my chest. Tiny murder mittens pressing into me rhythmically, like a massage from the world’s worst spa. Of course, Rex thinks this is “adorable.” He doesn’t hear the claws.
Then there’s the 3 a.m. shuffle. One cat decides she’s hot, jumps off. Ten minutes later, she’s cold, jumps back on. Over and over. Like, can we not? Pick a temperature, girl. The sound of their little paws hitting the floor, then the bed, then the pillow—it’s like trying to sleep through a drumline.
But the real kicker? Despite the lack of space, despite the fur in my mouth, despite waking up every morning feeling like I’ve wrestled a lion—I still love love love having them there. They’re warm. They’re soft. They make their little chirpy sigh noises that melt my heart even as I’m contorted like a yoga pretzel trying to fit onto six inches of mattress.
So yeah, I live on the edge of the bed. Literally. Rex doesn’t get it, because apparently he’s invisible to the cats, but I know the truth. I am their chosen human. Their heat source. Their pillow. Their sucker. And honestly? As long as they let me have at least one arm free, I guess I’ll keep accepting my fate.