Last night I crawled into bed somewhat earlier than usual. Chas was,
as usual, already there, pinned to the mattress by a large cat. But which cat, exactly, I didn't know.
"Who's on ya, Mr. Foolery?"
"Campos," he answered, sleepily. I stuck out my hand to pet the big puffy cat. The thing about Campos is that in the dark you have to feel around a bit to tell exactly which cat part you might be petting (unlike a short-haired cat, on which you can tell immediately its head from its hiney).
"G'night, Campy," I said said as I patted his . . . well, some part of him.
"Yeah, he's a good cat," Chas said, and lifted his head a bit to nuzzle the old cat.
And then, something went very wrong. I could tell, even in the dark, that Chas froze.
"Oh," he said quietly.
"What?" I asked.
"Well, Campos must have turned around on me. I thought I had the other end . . . "
"Wait, did you just THINK you kissed him on the nose?!"
"No! I just . . . nose-nose-nosed him, but on the . . ."
(A nose-nose-nose is our family's version of an Eskimo kiss -- rubbing noses together.)
"OH GAHHHH!" I shrieked. Usually you hope and pray for a good reason to yell that in bed, and usually you don't expect it to have anything to do with a 90-year-old cat.
"No no!" protested Chas. "It was only on his fur! There was NO touching of skin!!"
But it was too late. I was laughing so hard I was nearly choking. The more he protested that he had not, in fact, goosed the cat with his sniffer, the harder I laughed. We howled, we snorted, we cackled. And Campos rode it out with great feline disdain.
Then, just as the laughs were petering out, Chas added, "Well, it could have been worse. At least it's not as bad as when my dog Joshua sat on my thumb."
The laughter started all over again.