I have a cold.

Yes, I have managed to contract one of those doosies of a head cold. My body aches, I’m congested and I fear I will never feel well again.

On an average night, I am sure that you are all aware that I desperately need my beauty rest. Last night it was nearing crisis mode. I toddled off to bed at about 8PM, with my blanky, my box of Kleenex and my faithful cat, Max, the second cousin of the devil, once removed. (By-the-by, Satan sends his regards and hopes you are all doing well.)

It is October. The nights are getting cooler. The herd of wild Saints is starting to venture closer and closer to the bed after dark. (Make no mistake, before sunset, the bed is their center of operations.) At some point, after I crawled into bed, but before Richard was tired, Trixie crossed the line. She jumped up on the bed with me occupying a side. Max was not happy. Max let Trixie know he was not happy. Max let me know he wasn’t happy. Max let every living creature between The Dalles and Cascade Locks know that he was not happy. For thirty minutes Max lectured the world on proper bedtime etiquette and a Saints place in the world.

I got very little rest last night. Every few minutes, Max would wake me up to remind me that Trixie is an interloper and I am not to allow her on the bed again. I’m hopeful tonight will be better. I’m going to sleep in the basement.