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If I didn’t know better, I’d swear our animals are in league against us. It’s a fucking plot, I tell you.

Over the last few nights, Hound has been a restless pain in the arse – up at regular intervals during the night, drinking, mooching about, scratching the floor while she tries to get back to sleep. Sometimes it can be fixed by putting her in her cage (where she seems to relax, for some godforsaken reason) but sometimes the only thing that actually works is for one of us to give in and go to sleep in the spare room, accompanied by Hound in her basket.

It’s a pain – and I’m quite sure that certain uninformed people will come up with the normal “Hound needs more discipline” shit in the comments (to which I’ll just say now –  We’ve lived with this, it’s not behavioural, it’s related to her megaoesophagus and OCD issues) – but sometimes it happens anyway.

So we’d had a couple of nights of this, which is always wearing.

Last night though, Hound was fine. It was Psycho Cat instead who took up the “wake the two-legs up every few hours” challenge – this time by puking his guts up in the bedroom. Twice. Followed by yelling and scratching for water.

Hound, on the other hand, woke up and got up each time to check what Psycho Cat was doing, and once the cat-puke (still-warm) had been cleaned up, she went straight back to bed. On each bloody occasion.

I don’t know what the hell I’ve done in previous lives to deserve this current set of animals. But whatever it was, I’m pretty sure I’ve made amends for it now. Haven’t I?