Sleep is a precious thing, for it is
during sleep that we rejuvenate aging minds and heal aching bodies. We allow
our overactive brains to wander through the landscape of dreams, unfettered by
rules or reality. In many homes, sleep
is defined by time and place. You go to your bedroom, crawl onto what you hope
is a decent mattress, pull up the covers, turn out the last bit of light, then
nod off into luscious slumber.
In our house, the usual rules do not
apply. Each evening, we go about the
usual business of preparing for bed. The ritual goes like this: sometime around
7 pm, we lock the pet door so the cat can’t go outside. This keeps him from bringing in live
playmates after dark, and prevents him from getting into territorial wars with
the feral cat community up the hill.
At roughly 9 pm, all outside doors are
locked, blinds are drawn, and the dog is allowed to go outside one more
time. This step is critical; the dog has
no particular desire to go out, but if she does so, she knows she will get one
more treat for the evening. So she
dutifully goes out the door and stands on the deck for the requisite amount of
time, then comes back in for a little snack.
So why go through the ritual? By feeding the dog at night, we are
allowed to sleep until at least 4:30, when she starts to get hungry. Or wants
to go out. Or gets bored.
The cat, on the other hand, abides by no
such rules. He wanders around the house
looking for the warmest bed to sleep on, then settles in for the night –
usually in the exact spot where you would place your feet when you sleep. Cats can be rather perverse in that way. If you are reading, they sleep on the
paper. Laptops are particularly
comfortable when you are trying to write. And beds (or chairs) must be chosen
according to the most likely place someone will want sleep or sit.
After the doors are locked and the dog
has been bribed for another night, the house settles down for what we hope will
be a quiet night of sleep. Mom crawls
under her covers, often disturbing the cat from his perch on her small twin
bed. After some complaining and a few
dirty looks, the cat jumps down and wanders into my room. I choose to sleep in larger bed, so there is
a chance that our feline fiend can go unmolested there. Not so, as this devil incarnate inevitably
chooses to sleep exactly where I put my feet each night. Rather than anticipating a night of joyously
peaceful slumber, I steel myself for what will most likely be a long, arduous,
and often bloody battle for space.
When I prepare for bed, I usually have
to move the cat to the other side. He grumbles and jumps down. In a few minutes, he jumps back up, only to
lie on my feet. This irony is not obvious, unless you know from experience that
the cat will not abide any movement while he is trying to rest. “Skittish” pales against level of reaction
this cat can show when he is startled. [Think
cartoon cats with claws imbedded in a cellulose ceiling.] I move him again.
Once dethroned from my feet the second
time, the cat goes on the offensive, claws extended, eyes wide, imagining that
under the covers lie monsters or villains or really large mice. He pounces, attacks with bunny kicks, rolls
in his best Monday night Smackdown moves, trying to remove my feet from his
bed. In the end, he tires, and settles
down on the other side of the mattress until time for his 3 am ablutions.
You would think that the simplest answer
would be to close the door against invasion; the house shows scars of our
attempts at exile. The carpet under each
door is worn from the insistent clawing, scratching, and mewling of our
nocturnal nemesis. So we sacrifice
sleep, silently hoping that the house will still be standing the next morning,
rather than in tattered shreds. We each
find a place where our dreams come freely, and our bodies can rest. We fluff
our pillows, adjust our sheets…and try not to kick the cat.
