I fight an ongoing battle for the foot of my bed.

There are two cats in my home, both of whom enjoy the warmth and encapsulation offered by the space atop the covers between the ranges of hills my knees, calves and feet create. In general I’m comfortable with this situation; it’s a mutual exchange of warmth and I appreciate on some level that they choose me over my wife. But of course there are times when it’s not great - either I’m too warm, or annoyed that they’re moving too much, or just want to change my own position, and I’ll give them a good healthy shove off the bed with my foot.

Cats excel at dealing with this kind of treatment. I really have to hand it to them. They will react in one of two ways: slink off and find some other place to be, or go right back after that same spot with admirable and infuriating tenacity. They don’t hold a grudge, they just play their hand right back, sometimes calling the bluff. I’ll play the latter game with them for a while, either relenting or finding some other way to send the message. The way I see it, as long as I insist on turning the heat off every night, they deserve to win one of these battles from time to time - but it’s my bed, and if I need to pick them up by the scruff and drop them on the floor to make them know I intend to have it for myself, then so be it. I like to think all parties find the arrangement fair.

Last night, the younger cat who is still learning this game got a little rowdy after the second shove-off. She made a leap not onto the bed, but directly onto my feet, and went at my toes with her mouth. The aggressive action necessitated an equally aggressive, not to mention shocked and reactive, response. I got her real good. Normally I find my feet actually sweeping under the cats, pushing them in the intended direction like the tide. This jab caught her square, where exactly I don’t know. I felt her weight fully leave the bed and the sound of clattering iron pipe as she flew into the foot railings and tumbled through them to the floor.

Everything went silent for a few seconds. Finally I heard her slip out of the room, but unusually quietly. There was no scampering. I was a little concerned that she’d been hurt for real, but figured that as long as she got up and walked away, the damage could only be so bad. But sure enough, I was awake and started to feel the rumbling of a fixation that wouldn’t let me doze off again. I grabbed my phone and tried reading a little Twitter to mellow out. Over the course of about fifteen minutes, I painstakingly drafted this:

“Tell your brothers and sisters,” I said, raising the limp body. “The foot of the bed is spoken for.” My final mercy met a chorus of wails.

I found this exceptionally funny. I created an elaborately amusing scene in my mind, wherein I was holding up the body of a near-dead cat, making this boisterous declaration of my victory over the disputed lands to a roomful of its fellowship, then bringing the cat down full-force over my knee with both hands, mercifully destroying it and finally casting it to the side with an open, quivering hand and wild rage in my eyes as I looked over the mass of crying felines with an absent stare that forced them to face the reality that none of their lives were worth an ounce more than the one I had just annihilated in the name of reclaiming my ability to do whatever I want with my legs - while I sleep. I lay in bed laughing at how awesome I was.

It then occurred to me that I should consider waiting to post this little gem until I had confirmed that the cat was not in fact slowly dying of internal injuries, or walking in slow circles on three legs in the living room. It’s not the kind of thing you want to have to backpedal on if you just accidentally murdered the family pet. I laid for a minute, listening for signs that I didn’t need to get up to prove her well-being, but heard nothing.

Finally I rose and methodically ventured to nearly every room in the house, eventually finding her curled up with the other cat, half hiding behind him. She visibly cowered when I went to her. I had some ground to make back up with this one, to be sure. I picked her up and we sat for a while. I got her purring pretty good, then put her on the floor away from where I had picked her up, just to get her to show me she was walking alright. She bathed a little, then made her way back to the couch, hopped up, and snuggled in with her brother again. I stayed up for a while and watched some television. The tweet post waited for morning.

She was fine, and I think we made up. But I also think it was the closest thing she’s had to a real, genuine hurting in her young life. Little shit had it coming - I’m not willing to give that up yet. And I didn’t mean to get her that good, nor did I put those rails in the way. But sure, I feel bad. She’s a sweet one. And I expect her memory is short enough that I’ll be fighting her for my mobility again as soon as tonight.