My cats always know when I need them most.  Marilyn- the long-haired glamour girl- is purring, at my side, rubbing her chin on the computer, now settling in on my ankles.  Sleek Sheba normally isn’t so affectionate.  Half-Siamese, she is like an ancient archetypical heiroglyphic stone carving: long-legged, elegant, aloof; she does not typically sleep anywhere near me.  Kurt Cobain must have been referencing her when he sang “where did you sleep last night?…in the pines, in the pines.”  Last night Sheba slept next to me- so rare, such a precious occurrence- between my right shoulder and my neck, with Marilyn under my left arm.  Jack generously slept on the couch, leaving me and the cats room to spread out and thrash and awaken and moan and try to read and maybe, even, sleep- a deep, drugged, dreamless coma.