02/06/2025
Every night, as the stars blinked awake in the quiet sky and the house settled into stillness, Schummi the cat began his slow, deliberate march toward bedtime conquest.
It always started the same way. I’d slip under the covers, stretch out with a sigh, and close my eyes, thinking—hoping—that maybe tonight would be different. Maybe Schummi would curl up at my feet like a polite little loaf of fur. Maybe he’d even sleep in his own luxurious cat bed, which he ignored with the disdain of royalty offered peasant rations.
But no. Without fail, I’d hear the soft, determined patter of his paws on the floor. Then—thump—he’d leap onto the mattress like he owned the deed to it. He’d stand for a moment, surveying the land like a general before battle. Then, slowly, deliberately, he’d wedge himself into the narrowest possible space between me and the edge of the bed.
Not at the foot. Not near the pillow. No. Right. Up. Against. Me.
"Schummi," I’d whisper, gently nudging him. He’d respond by pressing harder, transforming from a fluffy companion into a ten-pound, purring heat missile. If I moved an inch, he moved an inch closer. If I rolled over, he followed like a furry shadow, always somehow underfoot and exactly in the way.
Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night, arms pinned to my sides, legs half off the bed, and Schummi looking utterly content, snoring the soft snores of someone who knew they’d won.
There was no room. No escape. But when I looked at him—curled up, paws tucked under his chin, tail flicking in a dream—I couldn’t bring myself to move him. Because despite the ache in my shoulder and the half-frozen foot dangling off the edge, there was something warm and comforting in his insistence to be close.
Schummi didn’t just take up space.
He filled it with love.
Even if he did hog the whole bed.
