It had never occurred to me to buy Toonses his own bed. He seemed so comfortable in makeshift sleeping spaces: On top of Chuck's backpack, in forts made of jackets that had fallen from the coat rack, atop the piles of New Yorkers and bank statements on the dining room table.
Recently, date night found us buying a vacuum cleaner, and Chuck upped the ante on domesticity. "We should get Toonses a bed," he said.
Pshaw. He'd never use a bed. He hasn't had a bed in 11 years, and look how well he's turned out. Damn cat is like a drunk, making do with his resources. Scrawling out across the floor in a 2-foot-long tomcat-colored boa, using a single high-heeled shoe as a pillow.
Cat beds are for cats, not for the fur-faced monster we are growing. So we got him something suitable for a German Sheppard.
It took him a few days, but now he never leaves his little bed. He stands in it, yelping orders like it's his throne. He sacks out in it for days at a time, opening a blurry eye just long enough to mime the equivalent of: "Get your effing camera out of my face."
I think the bed gave him mono.