My bedroom has a pretty good sized closet that takes up one of the shorter walls. It has two sliding doors that are only connected at the top. At some point the people who owned the house before us removed the rails at the bottom when they replaced the carpet. It’s not a problem, really, the doors stay shut just fine when unmolested.
Someone needs to explain all of this to Freddie, long suffering sigh.
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Here’s the thing: he doesn’t do this every night. I’d just shut him out of my bedroom if he did. He does it frequently enough that I know what’s happening when I hear the closet doors smack into each other, but not so frequently that I remember he does this until he’s, well, actually doing it. But it’s the same every time.
I am not able to simply lay down in my bed and turn off the light. I have to read for a while before I can sleep. Unwind and get comfortable. Even if I’ve been up for way too long and am very, very tired. So I read for a little bit, then close the book, turn out the light, and roll over onto my side. I might sigh to myself in contentment. I might think to myself that I am lucky to have such a comfortable bed and such a nice space to sleep. I close my eyes and start to drift pretty quickly, grateful that I so rarely have trouble falling asleep.
And that’s when I hear it.
The closet doors gently tapping each other.
My eyes fly open. “Freddie!” I say into the darkness. “Stop it!”
The only response is the soft banging of the closet doors.
And then that noise stops.
And silence fills the room.
I blow out a frustrated breath, annoyed that my contentment has been so rudely interrupted. I am going to have to get up.
You see, my boy can get in the closet. But he cannot get out.
I roll over on my back and stare up at the ceiling, listening for the inevitable.
It comes in the form of a soft voice: “Human,” he says. “Human, I’m trapped.”
I shake my head, still staring at the ceiling.
“I, um, can’t seem to get out of here.”
I hear the soft scrape of a paw against the inside of the closet doors and I roll my eyes. “I should leave you in there,” I tell him. “You know you can’t get out. I don’t understand why you go in.”
“Don’t be mean,” he answers, his voice muffled behind a wood curtain. “Come let me out.”
I sigh and sit up, swinging my legs out of my warm, soft paradise. Yawning, I rise and walk over to the closet. I open the door very carefully — I’m always afraid of hitting him with it if he’s trying to escape.
There he is, my troublemaker, laying on the floor of the closet as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s dark, but I can make him out.
“You look comfortable,” I say.
He yawns and looks up at me. “It’s pretty comfortable in here.”
“Come on out,” I say with a jerk of my head.
He yawns again, but makes no move to leave the closet.
“Freddie,” I say firmly, missing my comfy bed. “Let’s go.”
He just stares up at me.
I swear, and reach down to shoo him out. He goes, but not without a grumble.
“Are you kidding?” I ask. “I just rescued you. You should be:”
He stops partway out of the closet to scratch behind his ear. When he finishes he tells me, “I was comfortable in there.”
“You were trapped!” I say.
He gives me a withering look. “Not after you opened the door.”
I scoff at him.
He saunters past me and hops onto my bed.
I close the closet door, probably harder than necessary, and follow him to the bed. He waits for me to get back under the covers and then curls up next to my hip.
“I rescued you,” I say again.
“I suppose,” he answers.
“You probably wouldn’t rescue me,” I say, imagining myself trapped with only Freddie to free me.
“I...probably would."
I shake my head and roll back onto my side, careful not to move him too much. “You know you can’t get out of there by yourself,” I tell him. “So why do you keep going in there?”
“I like it in there,” he says, quietly. “There’s lots of stuff and it’s small and dark.”
"But you can’t get out,” I repeat, feeling like he’s missing the important part.
“That’s what you’re here for,” he says, the duh only implied.
“But — that’s — “
“Just leave the door open all the time,” he says.
“I can’t do that!” I answer, outraged.
“Why?”
“Because closet doors are meant to be closed! You can’t just keep them open! That’s wrong!”
“But I can’t get out,” he says, like I’m missing the important part.
I struggle for words for a moment, totally gobsmacked by his feline logic. “Stay out of the closet!” I screech finally.
I hear the click of his teeth as he finishes another big yawn. “No,” he says simply, then lays his head down and goes to sleep.
This little drama happens about once a month. He’s ridiculous.
Happy Caturday, Peeps! I hope everyone has a wonderful Mother’s Day if you celebrate it. Say ‘hi’ to ya mother for me, ok?