From dusk to dawn

Last night I for once slept soundly and uninterruptedly until like five twenty in the morning, no mean achievement  for a bloke of my seniority. Only gradually did it dawn on me, upon waking up, that the house had been turned into a site of carnage during my sleep. 
What finally emerged, without delving into too much of a traumatic detail: three different disaster locations around the house, contaminated with rodent blood and rodent leftovers and three matching piles of cat puke, some of it quite fresh. What a nasty awakening to the realities of death. It is in mornings such as this that the lack of servants becomes acutely felt. I was compelled to re-enact the part that Harvey Keitel aka Winston Wolfe "The Cleaner"  performed so well in Pulp Fiction, in want of a loyal domestic workforce. But although I had to clean up the sordid mess by my self, I was hardly alone. A bunch of impassive felines with a criminal record kept me company, eyeing my every movement with their disinterested interest. You get the picture, I presume.