Lately, Ralph has again been asking me to open up the cat cave at bedtime. He did that for awhile and then quit. Who knows what lurks in the minds of cats? It's always right after we, as a group, climb in or jump on and get semi-settled for the night. Pat, pat, pat on my hand or face (whichever's sticking out) in the dark. "Open the cave, Mom. Now, please." Ignoring him is not an option. So I obligingly raise an arm to lift the covers (covers plural, it's winter) and he crawls in, turns so he faces the opening, and lies down in the curve by my side. Sometimes he snorks (Ralph's version of purring) and sometimes he's quiet and still. There is something wonderful and comforting to have that small, warm, soft, furry body snuggled close. He stays as long as he deems fit, then creeps out to steal some of his sister's space behind my legs. His work is done. Good job, Ralph.
Stay safe. Be well.
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