chaosvizier

When I visited my aunt in 1997, her cat Papagena was still a kitten. I was sleeping on the couch, and I had put my hair, which is over three feet long, over the back of the armrest. At 3 am, Papagena would decide it was time to play, and I would be woken by claws in my hair or razor-sharp little teeth in my ankle. I eventually put her on the balcony for the night, where she mewed in heart-rending tones, clawing at the mosquito screen. It was Jerusalem in September and we didn't have the balcony door shut anyway. She survived. She also had a habit of playing in the cat litter tray (on said balcony) and piddling in the geraniums.