Them.

It’s nighttime. I have adjusted my blanket, just the way I like it. Gently pulled up to my chin, ever so soft and warm.  Sleep comes easily.Later in the night, I wake. Cold. My blanket is at the bottom of the bed. It’s become a nest. For them.They have entered stealthfully. Together. Thick as thieves. Which is exactly what they are.They stole my bankie.If I’m lucky, they’ve left me enough to cover one leg. I struggle back to sleep.At some point, one of them says to the other, let’s sleep on her. You take the small of her back, I’ll get on her legs.After a while, I wake. No feeling in my feet. This is not good at my age. I need circulation. I push the offenders off. They’re persistent. Back and forth we go. They win. I sleep. Again. Fitfully.Later, the bed quivers and shakes. It wakes me. It’s them, of course. They’re stretching and limbering up for a nighttime snack. But they’ll be back. Soon. I know.On and on it goes..…only dawn and their feral need for breakfast will break the cycle.Later in the morning when I gently fold the well-loved Ann Arbor Blanket, I can see that Oscar needs a thorough brushing and Basil’s front claws could do with a little trimming.Trust in the blanket. It holds the evidence and the story of the nighttime thieves.