Quigley's Competition

There's a new man--I mean can--in my bed. (The first would be nice, but alas.)

Here's the story. Quigley has a primal urge to sleep on my face. I spent many sleepless nights throwing him across the room, over and over, to no avail. He'd jump back up onto the bed and creep centimeter by centimeter toward my face. I felt like my nose was being stalked. I usually fell asleep waiting for him to cross the imaginary battle line I drew on the quilt. I'd dream of drowning and wake up gasping fur. Yes, Quigley sacked out on my face. I decided I needed to speak his language, so one night I hissed when he crossed the line. I've never seen a cat laugh so hard he peed himself, but Quigley did. As soon as he gained control, the stalk began once more, a bit less clandestine due to an occasional ill-constrained snigger.

Then I got lucky. I spotted a can of compressed air in the office--the kind that is intended to keep your keyboard clean. I put it in the bed next to me and that night when he crossed the line, he got a surprise. He was certain that a tiger was charging from that can and, from the tortured sound of the hiss, the tiger was enraged. Quigley peed himself again, but this time for a different reason. He was a black streak, over the headboard and up the wall. Eventually, he found the door. I slept like a baby, after the laughing fit was over--no I didn't pee my pants, but almost.

Now I don't even have to "hiss" the can. All I have to do is put it on the pillow. Quigley begins his stalk as soon as the lights are off. He creeps forward, advancing one quivering paw at a time, softly laying it down and shifting his weight forward in tiny increments. Gravely and skillfully he mimics the prowl of his ferocious ancestors--till he sees the can. Millennia of fine breeding gone in a skipped heartbeat. You'd think his tail was on fire.

It must be embarrassing for him to realize that he's been dressed down by a can, but he can't help it. The hiss emanating from it's tiny mouth strikes a fear in his very core that is as primal as the urge to sleep on my face, although judging from the claw marks on the wall, it's infinitely more compelling.