This is Chester. He knows it’s sheet changing day and he’s waiting.
You know how it goes. If there’s an opening, he’s in it, rolling around, clawing at the invisible mice that he thinks are hiding at the end of the bed.
He fails to recognize that it’s simply the sheets flapping as they’re being smoothed out.
And telling him to stop being stupid elicits a dumb look that borders on insolence.
There he sits stretched out, between the sheets, where he thinks I can’t get him.
I’m not moving, he says.
You can’t make me.
I’m going to lie here till the snow covers me up.
He even pokes his tongue out at me.
I fold the sheets over, then over then over, step to the end of the bed, and lift.
Next minute he’s on the floor, a perfect landing on all four paws.
He looks up. You win this time, but just you wait!
Perhaps I should shut the door to keep him out, but where would be the fun in that.