Although yesterday morning was one of those sweet rarities during which my son had actually decided to allow me to sleep in, I woke anyway around 5 a.m. Other family members had different ideas.
I would have stayed in bed, mind you, through most anything. But this particular disruption came bearing fur, a loud voice and a mind of its own, and wasn't about to be ignored. At said ungodly hour, I'm minding my own business, drifting pleasantly in a dream of bowling alleys and barbecue ribs (a story for another time). I feel a slight poke on my eye. I roll over and ignore it.
I feel a thumping following my roll. Poke, again, on the eye. Poke-poke-poke. I ignore it, trying to give not the slightest indication I feel anything.
Poke. Poke-poke-poke. POKE-POKE-POKE. SHOVE-POKE. On this last one, my eye pushes in, making those dark swimmy spots and that blechy feeling, which, since I have a headache already, feels real swell. I open the assaulted eye and see a giant orange paw coming in for another round, until its owner realizes he's had success.
"Mraow? Rrow. Purrrrr," the assailant says. I let him know my head feels like the site of a recent Rage in the Cage match, that it's too early, that he'd be wise to keep his paws to himself if he plans to keep them attached to his body. I close my eyes.
Poke. Poke. I open my eyes, call the cat a derogatory name, and lay down for one last try.
Poke. "Mraow? Purrr..." Poke. This time, he's doing it while perched on top of my neck and chest.
I get up, after which I am herded, sheepdog style, to a dish already mostly full of cat food.
Aldous Huxley once wrote, "To his dog, every man is Napoleon." He said no such thing, however, about cats.
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