The Cat Who Chose the Strangest Nap Spots

As a human, there are many things you learn to accept about your pets. They are unpredictable, mischievous, and sometimes a bit… out there. But if there’s one thing I didn’t expect to be challenged by on a daily basis, it was the sleeping habits of my cat, Mr. Pudding.

Mr. Pudding was a large, round ball of fur with an attitude that screamed "I’m in charge here." He had been adopted as a kitten, but by the time he was two, he had already claimed every inch of the apartment as his own. His favorite pastime was curling up and sleeping in spots that made absolutely no sense—spots that defied logic.

It all started when I found him asleep in the laundry basket. I had just finished folding clothes, and I left the basket in the living room while I went to the kitchen. Upon my return, I found him buried in a mountain of freshly folded socks and towels, his fat belly hanging out like a loaf of bread, as if he’d been napping there all day.

“Mr. Pudding,” I said, exasperated, “you can’t sleep in the laundry basket. It’s full of clothes.”

But Mr. Pudding didn’t even open his eyes. He merely rolled over, stretching his legs lazily, as if to say, "Try and stop me."

A few days later, I found him in the most bizarre spot yet. He had decided that the perfect place to nap was... in the kitchen sink.
Yes, the kitchen sink.

I had left the faucet running while I briefly stepped away to answer the door, and when I returned, there he was—curled up in the sink like a loaf of bread (again), his eyes closed in complete contentment. The strange thing was, he didn’t even fit entirely in the sink. His body hung off the edges, and I could see his little paws hanging down over the edge, almost as if he were a small, furry decoration in the most impractical of places.

“Mr. Pudding!” I shouted. “This is a kitchen sink, not a luxury hotel. You can’t sleep here!”
He yawned, stretched, and slowly opened one eye, giving me the most annoyed look. Then he lazily rolled out of the sink and onto the counter, as if to say, “Fine, I’ll nap here instead.”

The next week, I thought I had seen it all. Mr. Pudding had developed a new obsession: the bathroom. Not the floor, mind you—no, that would be too normal. He had decided that the best place to nap was inside the toilet paper holder.

It wasn’t even a big holder. It was the kind you hang on the wall, just big enough for a single roll of toilet paper. Somehow, in his genius (or lack of it), Mr. Pudding had crammed his entire body into the space, leaving just his tail hanging out like a fluffy flag. When I walked into the bathroom to see this sight, I couldn’t help but laugh. There he was, a chubby cat with his tail curled up like a corkscrew, half of his body awkwardly hanging out of the toilet paper holder.

“Mr. Pudding, you cannot sleep in the toilet paper holder,” I said, shaking my head. But as usual, he ignored me, clearly too comfortable to care. It was as though the whole concept of personal space meant nothing to him.

But it wasn’t just the laundry basket, the sink, or the toilet paper holder. No, Mr. Pudding had an incredible ability to find the most inconvenient places to sleep. I once found him perched on top of the microwave. Not on the counter next to it, but on top of it. He had somehow squeezed into the small space between the microwave and the cabinet, turning it into his personal napping spot.

Another time, I walked into the bedroom to find him curled up under my bed—inside the box spring. His little round body was wedged into a corner of the bed frame, his head sticking out just enough for me to see his sleepy eyes glaring up at me, as though I were interrupting his royal nap.

“Seriously, Mr. Pudding?” I asked, standing in the doorway. “Are you planning on becoming one with the furniture now?”

He yawned, then promptly rolled over onto his back, leaving his belly exposed in that way only cats can do when they’re pretending to be innocent. His look said it all: "I’m comfortable, and I don’t care what you think."

But the most ridiculous of all Mr. Pudding’s nap spots came one afternoon when I returned from work to find him asleep in my shoe. Not beside it, not near it—inside it. The shoe wasn’t even that big! It was one of my old sneakers, and somehow, Mr. Pudding had managed to curl his entire body inside the shoe, his little head resting on the toe like a queen on her throne.

“How do you even fit in there?” I asked in disbelief, kneeling down to peer inside the shoe. But Mr. Pudding only shifted slightly, nudging his head further into the toe of the shoe, as if to say, “I’m good here. Don’t mess with my nap.”

At this point, I had given up trying to figure him out. I accepted that Mr. Pudding was just… different. He had his own way of doing things, and as long as he wasn’t doing anything too dangerous (or too disruptive), I had to admit that it was kind of impressive how he managed to turn any spot into his personal bed.

One evening, I found him asleep in the dishwasher. I didn’t even know how he had gotten in there. The door had been open for a few minutes, and when I went to close it, there he was, curled up between the dishes. There was no space left—he had claimed it all for himself.

“Mr. Pudding,” I sighed, closing the dishwasher door gently to avoid waking him. “You are one strange cat.”

But despite all his bizarre choices, I couldn’t help but love him. He was a creature of comfort, after all. And if he found a spot that made him happy, who was I to question it?

After all, he was just living his best, weird life—one nap at a time.