I asked him where they were going to sleep in our little house? Had he checked our supply of pillows and blankets? Had he fluffed the guest towels and baked some little finger foods? Were there enough scented candles ... had he found my favourite internet piano jazz station to create a welcoming atmosphere?
Spike looked at me like I had three lovable heads. He informed me that he and his guests were going to play video games all night long, and eat salty, greasy, sugary things. Fluffing was not on the agenda. He suggested that it might be best for me to just retreat to my cozy, quiet bed.
Which I did, quite happily. (After grinding my coffee for the morning. That would be a nasty early morning sound for guests to wake up to when you've been playing video games all night.)
I really love going to sleep at night.
Even though Millhouse meows and clicks around until you lift him onto the bed, where he promptly drops himself on to my foot, and falls dead asleep so I can't turn over.
When he's asleep like that, I can flip him right over to get him off my foot. And he doesn't wake up.
Even though there are these pet-related complications, I still really love going to sleep at night.
When I woke up in the morning, I remembered there were guests snoozing peacefully somewhere, so I made sure I had my dressy PJ's on. Crept out of the bedroom to make the coffee and head out into the backyard.
And stopped dead in my tracks at the devastation I saw.
Half-eaten pizza and large knives.
Open bags of chips, glasses filled with some kind of red liquid.
Garbage and dirty dishes strewn everywhere.
I could only conclude that a biker gang had crashed Spike's video game night, possibly drugging me in the process, so that I slept through it.
There was a half-naked body right here, on the dining room floor.
The body was nowhere near the pillow or the blanket, mind you.
A trail of destruction led me to two other bodies, these ones safely snuggled into couches.
I took all these pictures for evidence.
Tucked a blanket around the body on the floor, and snuck a pillow under his head.
Poured my coffee to calm my nerves, and then I took a more methodical tour of the house. (I took Millhouse with me on the tour, in case I needed backup.)
Upon closer inspection, there were no bikers. No gangs. No permanent damage. And the body on the floor was only sleeping, not dead. I know this, because as I was taking another picture of him, his eyes opened sleepily and he smiled at me. That's when I recognized him. My youngest nephew, the Beaner.
That was my clue.
I smiled back, and then went back to the living room. Looked closely at the pile of long hair framing the face of the body on the love seat. Yup - it was my niece. In my mind, she's always been J-Blue. I don't know why.
And then, with renewed confidence, I looked across to the couch. On it was my oldest nephew, Punk. (Short for Punkin, a nickname given at birth, but don't tell him that. He'll be embarrassed.)
I shovelled up the garbage and burned what couldn't be saved. Oh come on, you know I didn't burn anything. And eventually they all crawled out of their respective corners for their part of this nutritious breakfast.
