Midnight. Spooning with Mr. Crazy Pants. My back to the window where a gentle early fall breeze blows in. His body curled into me like a furry comma between my breasts, soft as a chinchilla; my chin resting comfortably on his head, pointy ears on either side of my jaw bone. He purrs. Quietly and constantly. It vibrates in my breastbone.
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1am. Still awake. Pants, still comfortably numb beneath my chin, breathes steadily. I try to tune into his rhythms. I toss. I turn. I toss again. Pants waits, and when he thinks I am done spinning in my bed, he walks across my shoulder, steps on my face and curls into my chest, again. We face the window. And the lighted alarm clock. Which is set for 5am. I think briefly of the cocaine nights I would lay wired, trying to will myself to sleep. Curling around Mr. Crazy Pants, I’m grateful those are over and done.
2am. Actually, it’s kinda chilly.
2:15am. Maybe not. Maybe I should turn the fan on.
2:17am. No, chilly. Definitely freaking chilly. Pull up extra blanket.
3am. Changed pillows. Tossed, turned. Tossed off extra blanket. Dragging Pants with me when I flip over to prevent him from stepping on my face as he repositions himself. Cause, really, ten pounds of cat standing on my face is NOT restful.
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3:27am. Yet another party heard from. The feral cat has joined the party, sitting heavily on the foot of the bed. Staring. With that annoyed expression. I feel her disapproval, even in the dark. Cranky, but chicken, she will run and hide if my feets get too close. I pull myself very small, curled around Pants, so as not to disturb the Dowager Queen. One hour and 33 minutes. That should be enough, assuming I can fall asleep. Now. Or Now. Or Now….Soon.
4am. Awake.
4:15am. Awake.
4:17am. Still awake
4 fucking 30 in the morning. Mr. Crazy Pants, tired of this nocturnal tumult, has decided to be the outside of this nights spooning couple. Draped over my head on the pillow, front feets dangle in my face, back paws stretch along my neck, I wear him like a party hat. Or a faux-hawk. Or a kitty-hawk.
4:45am. Pants isn’t moving, he’s over it. Stick a fork in him, he’s done. I turn. He stays. And my face is buried in his belly. He purrs on, sleeps undisturbed. One eye open, I watch the lighted clock. 4:46. 14 minutes left to sleep.
4:50am. The clock starts to pulse with light – a gentle way of waking. The back of one eyelid throbs red with the pulsating light. The other is buried in belly fur. Along with my nose. Which is stuffed, because, despite living with cats my entire life and living with denial slightly longer than that, I am, Allergic. To. Cats.
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5am. Snooze. Flip. Cuddle. Just fifteen more minutes. If I could get just fifteen minutes of sleep I would be okay. The Dowager Queen is back. She stares daggers at me from the foot of the bed and then leaves. I feel her judgment. It is, after all, time for her breakfast, and I am obviously a lazy slacker. I will be punished.
5:15am. Snooze. If she is the Queen, Pants is the court jester. And the court jester is awake. The morning ritual begins. He digs under my head with his own triangular fur-covered bone head. Pushing my head off the pillow, burrowing underneath me, demanding a lap, a hand, a canoodle, to be cuddled, petted, played with, fed.
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5:30am. I give up. Resistance is futile. And so, our day begins. No sleep for the sleepy.
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8:39am. Exhausted from a morning of burrowing, eating and a long night of sleeping, Pants lays next to me, asleep, peacefully. The Dowager Queen has gone back into hiding, sleeping inside the box spring of my bed.
Were that I were a cat, and could drop wherever I find myself, simply stop, drop and sleep.
