It's kinda like Soul Surfer except there are no sharks and it's not that inspiring.
I've been sleeping on the couch for the past two nights because Gary's too manly to take medicine for his cough and I got tired of waking up to the sound of him ha-HLAPHCKHing in my face every five minutes.
Bravo isn't allowed on our bed but he is allowed on the couch. He gets really excited when one of us sleeps out there because then he can plop all his forty-five pounds right down on my feet, forcing me to wiggle them out from under him and move them to the side, giving him easy access to my toes, which he proceeds to lick aggressively, occasionally giving way to a slight nibble, and just generally making it impossible for me to get any sleep unless I fold myself in half. (I can't really blame him for the nibbling, as I imagine it's kind of like when you're chewing a piece of really sweet grape flavored gum and you really want to swallow it but you have to consciously fight the urge because you have a real fear that you've swallowed enough gum in the past seven years to ensure it's probably getting pretty crowded in there and won't take much more to cause you some serious health problems. But I digress.)
Anyway last night there was a crazy windstorm that knocked a vase* out of my window sill at about 3am, and I'll be darned if he didn't make it from my feet to my stomach in a single bound, knocking the wind (as well as a slew of curse words that would have made John McEnroe** blush) out of me.
I can't even be mad at him because I know he was just scared. He was a stray, so I assume the sound of the howling wind reminded him of his time on the streets. Other things that remind him of his time on the streets: thunder, car horns, people walking by, baby bunnies, nighttime and air.
*Don't worry, it was empty. Gwynnie's doing just fine.