Holly and I have been doing daily visits to one of her mother's cats because he managed to get a scratch on his face, so we (mostly Holly) are needed to keep it clean to avoid infection. The irritation of the cut causes him to occasionally scratch at his face and, being a cat, leads to more scratches from his hind claws.
Being pet people, we try to be prepared - it's as if we are trying to earn our boy scout pet sitting badge - and have an Elizabethan collar at home, which we put on the foyer table in case we need to bring it to Holly's mom's.
With our bedroom dark and me trying to remain asleep, I heard Holly stir in bed next to me. "Why would daddy do this to you?" I heard her say quietly.
I reluctantly opened my eyes to find, sitting on Holly, our older male cat with the collar on. Biggie Boy has an odd attraction to plastic, never able to resist licking any such material in his vicinity and at some point in the night, must have found the collar on the foyer table and stuck his head into this plastic beast - something most animals avoid like a veterinarian with a thermometer - unable to extricate himself from our devious trap.
When I moved into the house two and a half years ago, Holly made it known that I took Biggie's spot on the bed and that I had no right to be angry with him for jumping onto my face at three in the morning because that space used to be for him. Biggie's an older cat and, along with losing his hearing, may be losing some of his faculties.
At least that's what he wants us to believe. Considering I got blamed for torturing him with the collar, I find it difficult to accept any explanation other than this was a brilliant, well-contrived plan to restore himself as the male head of the household.