Bed Real Estate

I did the math. Well, rather some site that Google found did the math for me.
My cat Socks, at age 14 in cat years, is the equivalent of a 72 year old woman in people years.
Socks spends a great deal of time sleeping, which is fine, because I too spend a great deal of time sleeping. Socks' preferred place to sleep is my bed, which is okay, but my preferred place to sleep is also my bed, and so sometimes we run into conflicts about who gets what real estate on it.

The prime piece of land is the head of the bed, right where the pillows are. This is the equivalent to lakefront property in the eyes of my cat. I have mapped out this phenomenon for you in Paint:

The area in red belongs to Socks. The area in orange is variable, dependent upon Socks' mood, but usually belongs to Socks. The pink area at the bottom sometimes belongs to Socks' archenemy, Babycat. Socks likes to occasionally pretend that they have an alliance of some sort, just to trip me up. If Babycat is on vacation or sleeping elsewhere, the area in pink belongs to Socks. The area in green is the only fraction of the bed I have managed to successfully defend, and therefore I am permitted to sleep there (for now). I must take special care that my head does not escape the boundaries, nor may my feet be extended into the area in pink. The sentence for such a misdemeanor includes a wide variety of cruel and unusual punishments, varying from a quick, forceful nip of discipline (though she is 72, Socks has taken great care of her teeth and doesn't even have dentures yet), to a steaming gift of digestive problem aftermath for me to step in in the morning.

Don't ask me why a cat who weighs less than ten pounds, and her five pound feline counterpart, require 85% of a double bed. I do not know. I do not know why my pillows are prime real estate, as they lay their entire bodies on them, and do not use them to support their heads. On the off chance that I actually get to use my pillows, they are covered in a veritable coat of cat hair that would make Cruella DeVille swoon with delight, you know, if she were into that sort of thing.

In short, I do not understand bed real estate when it comes to cats. Or how a 72 year old, crazy, deranged, deluded, dementia-fied, crabby, snarling, lazy beast came to overtake my sleeping quarters.