Bed-Related Dilemmas

Stella got into bed with me last night. It wasn't the first time she's done that, but it was the first time I didn't notice. I forgot to put her away, see. She made one of her squealy scenes over a plate of bacon I wasn't sharing with her, and to cut a long story short, by the time I'd eaten the bacon, cooked up some more appropriate rat food, got it into the cage without being bitten, and pointed Stella in the right direction, she'd lost interest in food. She wanted to come out instead, so I let her. I figured she'd run off her bad mood, attack my beanbag chair a little, then go home. That damn rat must've worn herself out with all her protesting, though, because no sooner had I let her out of her cage than she'd curled up in the middle of the living room and gone to sleep.

"I've got to put her away before I drift off," I thought. Then, I closed my eyes for a moment, and in that moment, the night passed. I woke up with an uncomfortable greasy thing on my neck: Stella's head. I didn't care for the feel of her fur on my skin, but I hadn't the heart to bat her away. She'd crawled right into my coat with me, and was stretched out luxuriously along my chest. Every now and then, her little feet would twitch, or she'd make a muffled peeping sound. Her nose was parked wetly between my collarbones, and I could feel her snuffling away. I've never felt that before. Well, not without getting bitten immediately afterwards, at any rate. There is an established routine for most bad rat-giant rat interactions: I pick her up and put her on my lap (or she jumps up there), she cleans herself for a minute or two, then she bites my arm (hard, but not blood-drawingly hard) and runs away. There is no sense of camaraderie involved. My lap is just another perch, like the arm of my couch or the beanbag chair.

So I lay there, waiting for her to get up and move along. After a while, I started wondering if she would move along, or if she'd wake up, realize where she was, and attack my face. The more I thought about it, the more I expected she would. It'd be just like her to hijack my bed for a while, then thank me with an ugly scar. Stella is a chronic biter of the hand that feeds her, after all.

On the other hand, I wanted to take advantage of the situation to pretend she was a real pet, rather than a wild animal inhabiting my flat. Look at that lazy rat, sound asleep, I thought. I could stroke her back for a while, and she'd never be any the wiser. I started sneaking my hand closer and closer, being careful not to hold my breath, or otherwise disturb her slumber. I crawled my fingers over my ribs, inch by inch, advancing upon Stella's oblivious back. Then, irrational guilt crept in: Wait a minute--if she were awake, she'd never go for this. I'm date-petting her. What's next, ratty Rohypnol? I withdrew my hand. Back to Plan A--removal of one large, slobby rodent without getting my face bitten.

Of course, I still had to decide how to do it. I could go for a quick grab, seizing her under the arms and sticking her back in her cage before she could wake up all the way. By the time she'd got her eyes open and had a look around, the window of biting opportunity would've passed. Unless, of course, she got a terrible fright and woke up snapping. In that case, my hands would be hamburger.

Alternatively, I could opt for not picking her up at all: I could simply get up, causing her to tumble onto the cushions. That way, I wouldn't get bitten, but the cushions might. In a way, that'd be worse. Hands heal; fabric doesn't.

Finally, I could try for a gentle awakening, scooping her up in my arms and carrying her back to her cage with as little disturbance as possible. That approach, of course, would require a great deal of faith in her good nature, since it would leave her in position to bite my face, neck, and upper arms, were she so inclined.

While I was thinking about it, she yawned without opening her eyes. I knew my time was short. She always does that when she's getting ready to wake up. Coming to a decision, I sat up. Stella stuck to me. At first, I thought she was caught in my coat. Then, I realized she had woken up, and was hanging onto my shirt to keep from falling. Fortunately for my exposed throat, she seemed very woozy, and I was able to dislodge her gently and put her on the floor before disaster struck. She loped off home without any fuss, and continued her nap in her nest. I watched her snoozing for a minute or two, then took a shower. That rat is greasier than the plate I microwaved the bacon on. My neck and hands felt like an oil slick.

I stayed awake for an hour or two, getting a little work done, then went back to bed. It's been a rubbish week, health-wise, and now I'm hopelessly tired. I've got a million and one things to do, but most of them are going to have to wait till tomorrow. I'm awake now, all right, but I'm all floppy, sort of thing. Picking things up seems like an arduous chore--my Wacom pad feels as heavy as a dictionary, and the pen's gone all fiddly and foreign. Sleeping-pill hangover, I think. I've got to stop using promethazine hydrochloride. There's got to be something that doesn't last as long, something that'll knock me out for eight hours or so, then wear off. Also, it would be nice if it didn't give me heartburn. This promethazine always gives me heartburn. What a pain.

Maybe if I take another nap, it'll wear off. (This is how insomnia gets started! I keep snoozing and snoozing to get rid of that dozy feeling, and then I wake up completely wired, and can't nod off again for days. I'd better stay up. But I'm tired. Ah, the dilemma! Whatever shall I do? Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion...er, well, stay tuned, anyhow.)