At Least I Don’t Need an Alarm Clock Anymore

A plaintive wail shakes me out of sleep. I glance blearily at the clock—6:45 a.m. swims into view.

“No, Sammy,” I mumble, and snap my fingers ineffectually.

My cat moans again and scratches at my doorknob from his perch on my desk. (His clever way of circumventing the somewhat impenetrable barrier of pillows and blankets I pile in front of my door every night.)

“Are you for real?” I mutter into my pillow.

Thump. Light cat feet pad across my bed. Sammy clambers across my stomach, despite my grumbling and attempts to disabuse him of this habit, then crawls up to my face, intent.

I crack open an eye and meet his blue, unflinching gaze from two inches away. His pupils nearly eclipse his eyes.

After a second, Sammy chirrups and bolts from the bed, then leaps back onto my desk.

“Mmmmrrrrrrrooooooooooowwwwwww,” he screams. As urgent as if he’d just received a mortal blow.

“You need to chill,” I snap. I pat my comforter blindly.

Sammy flies from the desk back onto my bed. I spend the next two minutes petting him, hoping to coax him into lying down and relaxing, but as soon as my hand disappears back under the comforter, he’s back at the door, lungs ready.

I bury my head under the covers and manage to hold out for another two minutes.

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