For me, one of the treats of visiting my in-laws is their cat, Winky. I like cats. In my dissolute youth, I went through a period of lengthy (voluntary) unemployment. During that time, my roommate got a kitten and I fell in love (I’d never had a serious pet before). We used to play when he got his crazies in the wee small hours. I’d throw tinfoil balls and we’d chase them around the apartment. The roommate, who remained employed, soon regretted the adoption.
As much as I liked cats, I liked MamaGoof more and she had allergies, so no more pets.
But before the kids were born, we’d stay with my in-laws and I could heed the call of the wild yet again and join the hunt (for foil balls and strings.) Usually after our week of visiting the cat would curl up and sleep for several days.
Unsurprisingly, running around in the dead of night, I tripped and fell with a huge crash. I shook the house. In LA, this isn’t funny. Everyone woke up and went into earthquake mode. (In fairness, my in-laws tend to worry. When adverse weather hits anywhere on the east coast, they call. During Irene we pre-empted them providing hourly updates: “We have power, we aren’t flooded, do not drive here to rescue us.”)
I calmed them down and promised to stop riling the cat and go to bed. The next day, I met one of my closest friends for lunch. I could barely keep my eyes open.
“Why are you so tired,” he asked.
“I was up late playing with Winky!”
“Dude, I know we’ve driven cross country together twice, but that is way too much information.”