My cats have good Sundays. Me, I have occasional good Sundays; when I don't work, that is. Usually I get to do housework, which is good therapy, or work in the shop, which is also decent therapy. Turning wood into sawdust is my life ambition. My cats have nothing BUT good Sundays, because the only work they have to do is make sure that they're awake when Mama gets up to get "pouch" (soft food) for them.
Part of my Sunday routine is putting fresh sheets on the bed, and that always involves piles of sheets, clean and dirty, pillowcases, clean and dirty, and at least two cats, usually dirty.
Egan and Delilah. Both of them feel that it's quite necessary for them to be involved as deeply as possible in the bed-making process. Dee prefers being under the sheets when I billow them to make them reach the other side of the bed. She seems perfectly happy to run into the very center of the bed and huddle into a fluffy calico lump before the sheet floats down, so she can then start a sort of mole-like burrowing around and around underneath, until she finds Egan and attacks him from under the sheets, or I finally get tired of her creeping around leaving fur behind and slap the bed flat-handed, which usually makes her accelerate rapidly in a straight line, until she reaches a ledge.
Egan's preferred method of attack involves him being as tangled up in the sheet as possible BEFORE I billow it, so instead of getting a nice easy loft and float, I get instead a truncated "boom" and a highly motivated white and orange cat kicking madly at wads of cloth, front feet grasping and pulling as much as he can toward himself, all the while chewing madly on mouthfulls of 320 count percale.
Agaku, the Queen of the House never bothers with silly things like bed-making. She's usually all about sleeping on whatever pile of laundry just came out of the dryer. I seem to go through about six or seven loads of laundry a week, and the process usually involves tossing one pile of dry clean clothes on the couch and letting it sit while I unload the washer's load into the dryer and then fill the washer with another colour and some more powder, and starting the whole shebang off again, so I can stand in front of the couch and fold the last load. In those brief intervening minutes Agaku can come out of a sound sleep, make it all the way across the house and into that pile of clothes and then be BACK ASLEEP before I finish loading dryer and washer. She will then remain right there, rolling and falling and thumping, STILL ASLEEP, until there is no more laundry left, not even a lost sock. When I fold the last bit she will awaken, fix me with a jaded eye, and go back to wherever she was sleeping.
Cracker used to get into the bedsheets, but doesn't bother any longer. His Sunday usually involves waiting for me to leave my chair, so he can curl up in the warm spot on the seat. That's about it. That, and rubbing his declawed front feet (we didn't do it, he came that way) on whatever doorframe is closest to me, staring up at me with the most intense look.
Babel, my dear crazy tortie usually just hides somewhere until I'm done with a particularly involved bit of housework, whatever it might happen to be, then she appears magically in front of my ankles and begins signaling in her little broken Siamese meow until I pay attention to her. The only good use for a bed, in her mind, is for me to be in it and warm, so she can stake out a warm spot on top before Agaku gets there. The only good use for a pile of warm clothes is to attract the other cats so they'll leave her alone. Same for doorframes, although she does fancy the occasional venture out onto the patio, where she can watch the outside world go by without it wanting to get too involved with her personal space.
Whoever said housework was boring must own a dog.