It’s early. I blearily steal a glance at my alarm clock, which obnoxiously glows 5:46. Why am I awake? I feel a rustling under the covers and pull them up slightly, only to be met with a pair of wide, furtive eyes and a tentative meow. This mobile, feline wake-up-call returns to gently batting at what has so captured his attention: my, uh, how you say, family jewels.
Cut to another morning this week. It’s early, of course. I’m awoken by a quiet mewling and the ginger pressure of a kitten paw on my arm. I open my eyes to see the culprit stretch in annoyingly cute fashion, stand up, and do a full turn inches from my face. He settles back down after making himself comfortable, places his butt right in front of my squinty morning eyes and lets out a big, airy fart.
He got pushed off the bed for that one.
This is Seymour, the furry little perpetrator of both aforementioned sleep crimes. He’s a rambunctious ginger kitten that my roommate and I got two weeks ago, and he wasted no time making himself at home: gnawing on phone charger cords, climbing shower curtains and, of course, doing his darnedest to find a playmate in the middle of the night.
His other talents include managing to be underfoot at the worst possible moments, fitting into spaces that seem both illogical and impossible (Behind my desk drawer? On the window sill behind the venetian blinds? That two-inch space between the couch and the wall?) and dropping some serious stink bombs in the litter box. He also does a mean cursor chase across computer screens and displays a masterful ability to go exactly where you don’t want him to.
Now, when I come and go from my apartment, I have to be cautious that Seymour, who is an extremely excitable charge-at-the-door-to-greet-you kind of cat, doesn’t sprint out past me into the breezeway of my building. I also have to find kind souls to drop by my apartment and feed the ginger spaz when my roommate and I are gone for more than a day, not to mention the significant amount of money I’ll be spending on food, litter and vet appointments. (Sorry, l’il guy: enjoy your balls while you can.)
So, why the heck did I get a cat if all I’m going to do is enumerate the difficulties he’s brought into my life? As I was writing this, Seymour crawled into my lap on top of my computer, started purring and fell asleep with his paws on my hand. When I moved him to keep typing, he snuck under my computer into the hollow between my legs (I was sitting cross-legged) and conked out. Tomorrow morning, when he actually manages to rouse me from my morning stupor, he will be unable to wait until I put his food down for him to eat, purring and meowing excitedly all the while. And even though I shoved him off the bed after he basically farted into my mouth, he jumped right back up, spooned my arm and fell asleep.
Owning a cat is the best.