around 6 am, leo begins whapping, then ever-so-slightly nomming, my fingers–waiting for me to wake up.
leo: whap; nom, nom; whap; nom, nom
me: leo, stop. go back to sleep.
[sidenote: on occasion, i’ve called him different names, because i talk in my sleep. so if i’m dreaming about you when leo begins the whapping and nomming, i may call leo by your name. it happens.]
i hide my hands under the pillow, so the whapping moves to my face, becoming more dangerous.
leo meows in such a way it sounds like a question: hello? please to wake up, maybe?
i plead: please, buddy. just lay down. SLEEP. [i oblige his desperation with a few scritch-scratches behind the ear.]
to a kidun who only knows overindulgence, these scrtich-scratches clearly won’t suffice. the wake-up attempts turn bold, as he crawls under the sheets and begins nomming my toes. i retract my feet like a frightened turtle and open the covers, easing him out of the bed and onto the floor.
the meows grow more demanding: wake up now, you lazy, lazy hooman. play wif me. pet me. feed me.
i look down, there’s plenty of food in his bowl: you aren’t hungry. you’re fine. GO TO SLEEP.
sometimes, he is relentless. the meows continue. he sprints across the bed, hopping from one spot to another. i can’t take it anymore. this final straw puts him into time-out; isolation in the next room. but that’s becoming less and less frequent. i liken it to him growing older and more mature, but i’m sure it’s only a matter of accepting defeat.
inevitably, the moment he decides to settle back into a restful sleep, my alarm goes off. ’tis a cruel, cruel world.
but then i look at this and remember why we put up with such insanity in our homes, our beds, our lives.