In the early nineties Faith and I had rented our first house together and we were unpacking. My job was to set up and fill the waterbed. I'd been dragging this waterbed around the country ever since I was a teenager back in Nebraska so it was a familiar duty. Nothing fancy, a plywood pedestal topped by a couple large sheets of plywood made up the base. The sides of the bed comprised of four thick planks of solid wood hooked to on another with large hinge pins. Unfold the liner, position the mattress bladder, and hook up a garden hose.
Watching a waterbed fill is like watching a fifty gallon pot boil, it's never going to finish. So I headed into the computer room, which was, surprise-surprise, already set up.
Maybe it was an hour maybe a little more. Faith came to see what I was doing; no internet back then so it was either a computer game or an online BBS. I remember her looking over my shoulder and then a warning light went off in my head. Blasting out of the room I headed straight to the basement and spun the water faucet off and then ran upstairs.
Our pet at the time was a little slip of a cat named Peep. I had picked up Peep from the animal shelter, a sickly little kitty who didn't seem like she was going to make it. Finally the Vet prescribed a tube of "protein" which magically renewed her energy and will to live. Still, Peep was delicate and slight, not an aggressive bone in her body.
Coming around the corner into the bedroom that day we beheld a sight that will forever be etched in our minds. The waterbed, filled to almost double it's capacity, rose imposingly above the pedestal like Jaba the Hut. The square frame of the waterbed, normally resting firmly on the pedestal, had ridden up with the bladder and ringed it like a tutu on a hippo. It was suspended a good foot from the base.
And there, perched on the edge of the frame, on the hips of the hippo so to speak, was little Peep. Dwarfed by the stupendous groaning bag of water she stared at us with those big innocent cat eyes and an unfathomable expression.
I know what I was thinking and I'm sure it flashed through Faith's mind as well.
"Do not touch the bed!"
I whispered her name, approaching like she was ready to jump from a hi-rise, "Good Peep, gooooooood kiiiiiittty, come here Peep." I grabbed her.
The cat problem diffused we were still left with this surrealistically immense bag of water. "This is so bad, this is really bad," I kept saying, pacing as we waited for the all too slim garden hose to drain the water, expecting the house's sub-floor to give way at any minute.
Remarkably the only thing damaged was the waterbed mattress, which we replaced that afternoon. For her restraint Peep was rewarded a few weeks later with a companion kitty, Smudge, who's sadistic rampages and sneak attacks turned her into a nervous wreck. Shortly after our next move Peep went missing, my pet theory and sincere hope being that she found a nice, blue haired lady to live out the rest of her years with in quiet relaxation.
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We were actually playing computer games together. I got tired and said (uncharacteristically) that I was going to get ready for bed. You wanted to play just one more game. Luckily, I said something like, "Nahhhh." I rounded the corner to the bedroom, screamed, "Jerry the water bed!", and you took off for the basement (faster than I had ever seen you run inside anyway) to stop the water from flowing into the mattress. You told me later that you turned off the water, threw open a window, and threw the hose outside. Water pressure did the rest.
Meanwhile, I stood in the bedroom laughing. The cat standing on the "tutu" looked like she was saying, "But I was sleeping..." You ran into the room, grabbed the cat, and exclaimed, "You don't understand! There's over 800 gallons of water in there. One little claw and *wooosh!*!!!!! I still couldn't help myself, even with the knowlege of the gravity of the situation -- especially seeing your cat-claw-puncturing-the-mattress hand motions -- I could not stop laughing.
After draining the water bed, the mattress was all stretched out like a tired, deflated balloon. I remember how the now stretched edges were pathetically draped over the edges of the frame. (Anyone with water bed knowlege would know the mattress seems to be actually SMALLER than the frame when it is empty.) We had to sleep in the livingroom on some "normal" mattresses we luckily had.
I was thinking of Peep last night too. We must have been talking about her.
Oh, yeah. The waterbed was already full. You just wanted to add another "20 minutes" more of water. That's why the disaster was sooooo fast and soooo complete!
...so much for my perfect memory! ":^)
Very vividly told [and clarified] folks, well done.