My home at the moment is the house of LadyLong, in a cozy room brimming with my clothing and a few thousand of my favorite belongings in bags and piles. I have adorned every available surface with photographs of my lovin’ family faces. Despite what that implies, it’s actually the tidiest room I’ve had since…well, probably since sister sledge was 14 or so and thought a fun after-presents Christmas activity was making space in my room for my gift haul.

The other night, as I lay slumbering under four family-made quilts, I heard a light thump-thump-thumpetty at my door and awoke. Listening, I heard the slight sound again. At length, I concluded that some window was open somewhere and some wind or pressure change was stirring my door. I went back to sleep.

But in the morning hours, when peaceful sunshine began to slink in the window and put the lie to my gusty assumptions, the sound came again, more insistent this time. A rapping, one might even say, as one tapping, tap-tap-tapping at my chamber door. In bewilderment, I padded to the portal, and discovered the yellow eyes of Elliot the cat turning on me in equal confusion. He was curled on my threshold and I had disturbed his ablutions, which had in turn been disturbing the door he leaned against. Offended, he made his way off, and I returned to sleep the sleep of the unemployed.

Last night, again, it came, at three or four of the clock. This time the dark gentleman was not so easily swayed by my glowering visage, and I had to push him gently off with one magenta flip-flopped foot. Tonight, I came home and began my leisurely progress toward bed, and the tapping started. What did I care? I wasn’t trying to sleep yet...but it did occur to me that the sound might be disturbing the others who had more dutifully sought their beds. So I opened my door and confronted the cozy cat. He budged not. I mouthed silent entreaties, made wild gestures, and he budged not. Finally, I pushed him gently off with one Doc-Martened foot (please recall, members of the audience, that with one exception, cats and I make beautiful sneezing together). Rather than obligingly shifting himself down the hall, he looked at me curiously and waited for me to close the door.

No sooner had this been accomplished but I heard the clattering of the door in its frame as my devoted friend once more settled down to guard my threshold. Again I opened the door. “Elliot!” I whispered, “This will not do!” The performance duly repeated, and my natural guilt at rudely shooing the poor creature exacerbated by a number of throaty purrs, I decided to obstruct his place of repose with some towels that were sitting beside the door in the hall. He settled down, if anything, with more rapidity. I arranged the towels more annoyingly, and he settled down just as happily as soon as the door was closed upon my wrath. Finally, I concluded the towels had become part of his royal divan, and shifted them accordingly, and him, scooting along before my worn black toe, with them. He seemed content.

As I typed the last sentences above, I heard a thump. I oonched open the door, and there was Elliot, the greater comforts of laundry abandoned for the inexplicable joy of lying across my door all night. Very well, then, sir. I shall attempt to ignore your rattlings just as doggedly as you have ignored my hints. Good night.