Lovers of dogs and cats reading the following will understand at once. Another reaction will come from those who just don’t understand pets: ``Well, you fools! It serves you right!’’

I’m bunking down these days in my study to give Anne respite from my Parkinson’s restlessness. It’s a great arrangement, with her right across the hall in a welcoming queen-sized bed and with a new TV. And I have a comfortable single bed in what I now think of as my ``man cave.’’

My bed, desk, books, lounger, laptop — what more could I ask? And most nights I have the company of Simon the cat. It’s like camping out for us guys! Simon spends many nights at the bottom of the bed, right between my ankles.

But cat lovers will understand he also likes to settle on some high eminence in the room. His favorite spot in the man cave is atop the Xerox copier. It’s suitably high and placed just next to the west window. Hunkered there, Simon has a view across the west field and right down Allison Road, almost to the bridge.

I’ve put a thick throw of rough-woven wool on the machine’s top and know he’s grateful for it in his catlike way. Which is to say, he recognizes its value and is glad that I know what is due to him. I find that an endearing quality in cats. Others may call me wacko.

One recent night, Simon was enthroned on the Xerox and I was deeply asleep, settled down for a long winter’s nap. Sometime in the small hours, I half awoke to a low electrical growl and then a couple of clicks, but then sank right back into sleep. A minute later, or maybe an hour, I came awake again to ``thunk, thunk, whirrr,’’ and again, ``thunk, thunk, whirr.’’ The Xerox was running. Simon was over there, making copies.

I jumped up and cut him off after three sheets. On his part, he rolled over and stretched, then meowed inquiringly. I guess that, shifting earlier in his sleep, he had pushed the machine’s ``On’’ button. Then, later, he’d hit ``Print.’’ Repeatedly. OK, no fault, no penalty. Except to my sleep. For it took awhile for me to settle down again. After all, what to my wondering eyes had appeared? A gray-andwhite cat, printing copies in the night. If I had any dreams after that, I’ll bet they were interesting ones. Sheep at electronic pianos, maybe, and hens lined up like Rockettes, kicking up drumsticks high in front of them.

The only disadvantage of my man cave is that it’s right above the kitchen, and that’s where Blue the dog sleeps. And does so soundly, unless internal distress makes him think, ``I gotta go—right now!’’ When that happens, he begins moaning, at first softly to himself.

If conditions worsen, he shifts to a low register and begins sounding like Long John Silver. ``Arrrr,’’ he says, and then, ``Arrrr!’’ But there’s also a whiny, background wheeze — as if the crusty old pirate were choking on a fish bone.

All this I can hear through the floor and am intended to. And when I get up, pulling my feet from under a disturbed Simon, I sometimes open the bedroom door to find Blue standing right there, dancing from foot to foot, all wriggles and smiles and wagging tail.

He knows he has violated a major house rule: ``THOU SHALT NOT, OH DOG, PAD FROM KICHEN INTO DINING ROOM, MUCH LESS UP THE STAIRS, LEST THY TAIL BE SHOVED UP THY BUTT AND SNATCHED OUT THROUGH THY JAWS, TURNING THEE INSIDE OUT!’’ But all his dancing and smiling is to convince me that desperation has trumped ordinary rules. I, of course, buy it.

Downstairs we go. I add to my bathrobe my outdoor coat and my red Elmer Fudd cap, and we head out into the Arctic darkness. I have him on a leash and am almost jerked after him as he streaks for a favorite unloading depot. I stand shivering, admiring Orion overhead lying at rest on his back, as I’d sooner be. But then Blue gallops back in a kind of victory run, and back we go into the house’s warmth.

There’s a reason I have Blue on a leash during such night treks. There’ve been several of them lately, all following of a single cause. Somewhere down in our woods is a something in a horrible state of decay. Blue is ecstatic over it, and keeps running off to fetch home more pieces. So we keep him under protective arrest. It’s protective for us, for what he hauls home is beyond description. Somehow he got away from Anne a few nights ago and galloped off into the woods. My Anne, single minded in her devotion, ran off after him. And, as darkness deepened, her wobbly husband trundled after both of them. I caught up with Anne at the far end of the property, halfway down a steep, snow-covered slope.

``Get back to the house!’’ she yelled, ``You’ll fall down!’’ This from a dear woman of a certain age, in the blackness and halfway down a snowy slope, with every chance of snagging her foot in brambles and tumbling all the way down and into Oaks Creeks.

Then I heard a distant woof. ``He’s back up by the house!’’ I shouted and headed that way. Sure enough, there stood Blue, just outside the sheep gate. Whatever he had dragged back from the woods, he had already hidden for future reference.

Everybody got back inside safely, but on toward morning I heard the choking pirate below me again. And so I unsettled Simon, opened the bedroom door, and found that dancing, apologetic dog.

Why put up with such things? For petless people, I have no answer. For others, none is needed.

Read about Jim Atwell’s book at JimAtwell.com