Sleep. It’s one of my favourite pastimes. Since I was a babe, I’ve been pretty much able to sleep at any time, anywhere. I take after my dad. You know those silly musings that we’ve all answered at one time or another: do you scrunch or fold (a bit of both), would you rather be blind or deaf (blind, without a doubt), what’s your favourite time of day… I always answer getting into bed. Little satisfies me more than being horizontal after a long day, the smell of fresh linen, the puff of my feather pillows and the chance to cocoon myself as I prepare for moo-moo land.
Sleep is something that fast disappears when an eight-week-old kitten is brought home. And I’m suffering, as I knew I would. Cat owners around the world all have their stories. In the telling, the kitties are portrayed as clever and cute. And we laugh along in sympathy and delight. But that amusement came to a grinding halt when my littlest loved one took to biting my ear at 4 a.m. every morning. I. can’t. take. It. He wants to play. I want to sleep. I swat, grumble, groan and twist myself deeper into my duvet in a vain attempt to escape those sharp little teeth, to no avail.
And so I wrestle him out of the bed, and blindly head towards the door. Drop him on the other side of the threshold and gently (as much as I want to slam it) close the door. He’s learnt fast. He’s found his way back to my sanctuary, but chooses to nestle amongst the t-shirts in my bottom draw instead. And as much as I miss his warm, furry little body, I’m relieved that for the remaining precious hours, I can sleep, untortured.
But I can hear you asking, what would you do for love? Ah, stock up on antihistamines of course. I’m allergic to cats and crazy enough to own one. I will suffer through the itchy eyes, multiple sneezes, running nose and swollen skin around his scratch marks. But give up my time in dreamland? I won’t do that.
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