You know that moment. The time when you are dragged out of a sound sleep by the pounding of paws on the floor.
I swear, somebody slips that cat rocket fuel laced with catnip. One hour before dawn. Every. Single. Day.
So that’s when it happens. Paws charging down the hallway, then his weight lands on the bed. He stops, spins to the side. Is that a mouse he sees under the blankets? Claws out, he pounces in a full-on attack. On my feet.
He’s got me trained really well. I’m awake at the first vibration of his furry self barrelling across the bedroom floor. I prefer to think of it less as capitulation and more as a self-preservation technique.
As we trundle down the stairs together, he weaves back and forth in front of my ankles. Someday, I’m gonna land at the bottom of that staircase. If his goal is to get breakfast from me, his logic is severely flawed.
I take grim satisfaction in the mental image of myself, crumpled on the floor and him left with an empty bowl. “See?” I think triumphantly. “Serves you right for tripping me.” Yeah, there’s something wrong with my logic, too. Must be a family thing.
Once the can has been opened and His Highness is served, though, I am awake and halfway to coffee. The house is still quiet, the street is dark. This is my golden hour, the best time to write, and I am ready to make the most of it.
Feed the Cat O’Clock has its benefits. Even for the human servant.