Awakenings

My alarm clock weighs 18 pounds, coughs up grass and never has met a lap she doesn’t like.

Her name is Misty, my gray tabby.

A master manipulator, Misty toys with me daily — especially at night.

First, some foundation.

I’m not a sound sleeper. It must be cave-black and library-quiet before I can even think about resting.

Conversely, the cat starts thinking about her next meal the minute she finishes her last one.

This puts us at odds.

So every morning, typically between 1 and 4, a hungry Misty starts my wake-up call. If a mew doesn’t do, she graduates to the dresser drawer, flipping the handle.

The last resort is the door stop, which she flicks incessantly.

I cave. I always do.

Face fed, she returns to bed, cuddling in my crook. All is forgotten — at least for another day.

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