Frowst has a fragile little mind

Tuesday was a hot day in San Francisco. It broke all records, ending up as the hottest day of any August day here in recorded weather history.

Frowst, an animal with a large mass of thick, long, fluffy black fur, did not handle things well. Normally he is the sort of independent, energetic cat who spends very little time with his owners, but it turns out that if there is a record-breaking hot day, he will stay close by his Drunken Housewife, following her from place to place, sprawling near her on the floor and looking like he'd been shot in the gut.

At night the heat did not break. The children had a rough night, finding their room too hot. Iris in particular was reminded that heat rises, as her top bunk bed was unbearable. I learned the next day that she negotiated with Lola that she get to sleep on Lola's cooler lower bunk, and Lola slept on the floor (which Lola cheerfully reported was cooler than her own bed). They were awake much of the night due to the heat.

Meanwhile I could have slept just fine with the heat, and the Sober Husband got an excellent night's sleep. My problem was with Frowst. Frowst, driven mad by the heat, kept coming upstairs, crying all the way, and then walking onto me, meowing sadly and standing directly on me. I gave up, unable to get back to sleep after he'd woken me up yet one more time, and I went downstairs to read sleeplessly. Once I was out of bed, Frowst's mental breakdown became even more maddening. The cat seemed to feel that if he could just find the right spot, he'd be comfortable, and he wanted a high level of service in finding that spot. I let him out the front door. I let him back in. I let him out the back door. I let him back in. I let him in and out of the front door several more times. He tried crying to be let into the garage, which frankly I thought was a winning idea given how dark and cool it is down there, but he soon cried to come back up. Eventually, in the wee hours, I got sleepy enough to go back to bed, rather than pass my time letting the cat in and out.

After I fell asleep again, the cycle began anew with Frowst crying and walking on me periodically. After a few times, I couldn't get back to sleep again, and I went back downstairs for some reading punctuated by opening doors for the cat. It seemed to me that his mind had been deranged by the heat. Meanwhile Henry passed the time by spreading out as much as possible on the floor, and poor, skeletal Al, our odd cat, loved the heat, purring happily.

I told the Sober Husband the night's sorry tale the next day. He was filled with self-congratulation. "I have so successfully trained these animals not to expect anything from me! It really pays off!" he crowed.