Helena had hoped Rosie would sleep with her and would scoop her into her bed in the evening. But Rosie wouldn't settle down on command, and then it took far too many minutes to corral the kitty out of Helena's room, so now Helena doesn't even bother — she closes the door behind her to make sure no feline whips through her dreams.
Come my bedtime, Rosie is no better at settling down, but as I usually read for a while, it doesn't bother me too much. She circles the bed, surveils the territory, clears the corners of invisible predators, attacks my toes. She is curious about my reading material, and when my book lies open on the bed she creeps up onto the page as if trying to discern those strange markings. I remove her. The dance repeats itself. She eventually tires.
Last night was quiet. I read. When I turned over to turn off the light, I discovered Rosie was close by after all; she's found herself a comfortable niche among the mass market paperbacks.
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