Pussy protector BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY

My cat likes to lie in between my legs, right up against me, holding vigil. Cowboy hates it because he knows that it’s unlikely either of us will have the heart to move her when she looks so totally blissed out.

This is the drill: We get in bed, engage in a little foreplay of New Yorker reading (Cowboy last week’s, me this week’s; I get first dibs, of course), and up comes Ellison just when Cowboy’s feeling like maybe he can move on from the New Yorker to something a little more stimulating. She hunkers down, facing him, her eyes widening like Claire on Six Feet Under and purrs a challenge. It would be one thing if she hung out near my feet, or even near my pillow, but no, especially when she senses any kind of action on the horizon, she becomes my virtual chastity belt.

Logic might seem to indicate that my crotch is the warmest spot on the bed, but Cowboy’s convinced this is Ellison’s way of preaching abstinence for her own convenience.

The whole pet and sex thing, I imagine, is an issue with most couples. Like who wants their dog to watch, for instance? I can just imagine Ellison watching and taking notes, asking herself, "What’s different about this boyfriend?," while making measurements and opinions. On the other hand, I feel weird about shutting the door and kicking her out of the bedroom (let alone the bed) because that seems cruel and like sex is shaming. Gosh, it’s hard to raise a cat with a healthy outlook on sex.

When Cowboy finally accepts that she’s not going anywhere, we all try to sleep. Actually, they seem to sleep fine. Sleeping next to a six-foot-five Cowboy and a cat, both of whom sprawl out on either side of me trying to leach as much warmth as possible from my body as I pant for air and contort my body into bizarre letter shapes in order to accommodate both of them.

The bed/Ellison thing has been even more complicated lately because Ellison is having some fanny issues —specifically, she’s not really cleaning her fanny all that well. I can’t say I really blame her — I mean if I were a cat and I had to actually lick my butt to get it clean, I too might rule in favor of dingleberries.

But nothing kills the mood more than a Pussy Protector with a dingleberry.

Cowboy Aww Ellison, can’t you go sleep in one of your other six beds?

Ellison Purr Purr, I’m not going anywhere, bucko.

Me I’m tired anyway.

Cowboy Yeah, of course. You just read the New Yorker for the last hour and a half. That makes anyone tired.

Me No, it made me depressed.

Him How can you sleep knowing her dingleberry butt is on the bed?

Me It's not that bad.

Him I saw a thing hanging.

Me You’re just trying to get her off the bed.

Him No, seriously.

Me Okay, you go clean her butt. I already cleaned it once today.

Him Aaaghh. I’m outnumbered in this house.

Me I know. Just go to sleep. Everything’s okay.

Him Ellison, at least come cuddle with me!

Ellison Now, you want me over there? But I’m so warm and protected in my mom’s crotch!

Him Can you move Ellison next to me?

Me Are you kidding me?

Him Put her in between us.

Me Okay.

Sure enough, Ellison is not happy about the movement and springs off the bed.

Him Honey, you still awake?

Me (In the most sleepy voice I can muster) Huuuhh?