A Purr-fect Waking

By Katharine

Warnings: Rated G for fluff and feline cuteness.

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I am not now, nor have I ever been, a morning person. Oh, I certainly enjoy the awareness and activity each new day brings, but I absolutely loathe the process of waking up. In one moment, I’m wandering blithely through the warm and comfortable fog of oblivion, and a mere heartbeat later, the haze begins to part, exposing my poor sleep-muddled brain to the chill and demanding world without. The half-hour or so between deep slumber and true awareness is an interminable limbo, filled with odd dreams and restless shifting. Even after I’ve emerged from the depths, I tend keep my eyes sealed shut for as long as possible; I know that as soon as I let the new day’s light in, I will be constrained to leave my snug nest of pillows and coverlets.

The sole exception to my anti-waking policy occurred this past December. I returned to consciousness with my usual lack of enthusiasm, opening bleary eyes to a bedroom filled with murky pre-dawn shadows. My neck was bowed forward at an awkward angle, and my entire face was numb with cold. Frosty little shivers danced down my spine. Bloody fantastic, I groaned silently, it’s freezing in here!

As though the climate wasn’t unpleasant enough, the kink in my neck was swiftly escalating from “vaguely uncomfortable” to “downright painful.” I frowned sleepily and arched my neck backwards to relieve the pressure. Just as I began to make some headway, though, I became abruptly aware of a soft, lumpy something lying piled against the back of my head. A sonorous rumbling reverberated through my skull, and when I craned my neck about, I found myself buried nose-deep in a mound of plush fur. A dainty paw tapped reproachfully at my cheek, and a glassy pair of lime-green eyes blinked lazily at me. My Ginny, a portly brown tabby cat with dramatic black stripes, had curled herself around my head like a Russian fur cap.

I was pleased to discover the pretty cat sharing my pillow, but her considerable bulk was compressing my neck and shoulders into a taut crook. “Ginny girl,” I mumbled groggily, nudging my head back against the tabby’s weight, “yer gonna hafta move, pretty girl, ‘cause yer squishin’ muh neck…”

A slender tail lashed gently against my back, and Ginny let out a long purring sigh as she buried her nose in my hair. I could almost hear the typically self-absorbed cat-thoughts: Yeah, well, if you want me moved, you’re going to have to motivate enough to move me.

I wasn’t exceedingly motivated, to be honest. With a bemused roll of my eyes, I began shifting downwards, intending to tuck my face under my covers for a few minutes. Not only would it alleviate some of the pressure on my neck, but it would also give my frozen face a chance to thaw out. I flipped the blankets up over my head and scooted down a bit, being careful not to displace Ginny—

—and I immediately bumped noses with a pouty two-toned face. At some point during the night, it seemed, I had gained another bedmate. Tiny, mottled Claudia had burrowed her way under my covers, seeking a warm nest to shield her petite feet and tail from the cold air. I felt her fluffy little body shifting against my ribs, and I smiled at her as I stroked her velvet ears. “Hiya, Bunny,” I whispered. “You warm enough in here?”

Claudia responded with an affirmative chirrup, her eyelids drifting to half-mast as she nuzzled my hand insistently. A chiming, breathy purr filled the cramped space beneath the covers. When she is truly pleased, my little tortoiseshell produces the most delightful trills and warbles, and the “tone” of her voice changes each time she exhales.

I suddenly realized that Ginny hadn’t moved from her relaxed sprawl against my head, and that her bass rumbles were resonating in direct counterpoint to Claudia’s soprano chirps. Biting back a giggle at my personal feline chorale, I reached up with my free hand and ran my fingers over Ginny’s ears. The deep-throated purring grew louder as the tabby rubbed her head against my palm. I couldn’t hold back my laughter that time; Ginny’s forceful whirring was rattling my eyeballs in their sockets, and Claudia’s delicate warbling was tickling my ribs.

Naturally, little more than ten minutes passed before the two cats decided they’d had their fill and deserted me. Despite the brevity of their stay, however, Ginny and Claudia gave me the best awakening I’ve ever had. I’m still not a morning person, and I probably never will be, but I have since discovered a possible cure for dawn grumpiness; plunk one rumbling tabby on the pillow, and tuck one chiming tortie under the covers, and I can personally guarantee a purr-fect waking.

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Remembering Essay written for Composition I.