The Norsky ridden bed

If you ever decide to come to Vrensted (with flowers in your hair), don't forget to ask for Norsky. You won't be needing to do a lot of searching, nine outta ten he'll be lying on my bed. In fact, calling it my bed is something of a misnomer by now, seeing that he's spending more time in it than me. Not only do I find him there when I come home in the late afternoon, he's also doing time there during the nighttime, curling himself up comfortably on this or that spot of his fancy. Diligently and without fail he'll wake me up every morning at 3.30, to ensure I get to work on time. He will Cris's-cross over my body and lick my arm or any other exposed body part with his richly moist tongue. On the other hand, he is less meticulous in regards to what he'll bring with him from the outside to dump on the bed, as it happens a plethora of sundry bits and pieces commonly known as dirt. But aside from these minor snags, we get along just fine, he is the most clever cat I've ever seen, the William James Sidis of cats. It won't surprise me to find someday a golden toe written treatise on how to induce insomnia in humans composed by him under the duvet, no no, not one bit. It's to be reckoned with.