It’s a special treat when I ease into morning awareness and discover Trader sleeping in my bed. He’s not very much of a “bed cat,” preferring to loll on car hoods, the open expanse of floors, or the lawn. On one particular morning, I felt his weight on my hair. He loves to share pillows and the more human hair he yanks out, the louder her purrs, the more insistently he kneads. Sleepily reaching my hand up to give him a good scratch, buried in his fur I detected…something…disgusting. Something nightmarish. Something of garbled gags and guttural cries. Something that made me pitch forward–only I was trapped because Trader was lying on my hair. Singlehandedly removing my hair from beneath his bulk, I rolled over with mild, apprehensive nausea and investigated what sticky, grisly gobbet was mired in what I call his “puffy shirt”–that being the fluffy ruff of chest fur that all long-haired cats have.