Toby, the cat, cares more for Laura than for me. He sleeps in her bed at night, at her shoulders. If she shuts him out, he sleeps outside her door. I saved his four week old life, six years ago, and spend fifty dollars at the vet for an antibiotic shot because I cannot get him to swallow the pills. Does that count? No.
My recent life changes find me in bed, asleep, far more than the old days. Sleeping off anesthesia, sleeping off surgery, sleeping off drugs. I get through as much day as possible, then fall in bed, in a stupor, until I get up for the next appointment. This week has been a crummy sleep week, and I’ve hit the bed too often.
Toby quickly nosed out my inert body; someone asleep in the day apparently is a good deal. The first time I felt a warm cat body along my side and a kitty head on my shoulder, I thought “how nice,” and gave him a couple of sleepy eyed back scratches before I went back to sleep.
I woke up stroking his cheek, which turned out to be his hind feet. “You old faker,” I announced as I sat up, and he rolled into the vacated middle of the bed.
Today has been another day of sleeping between being awake. I just counted my calendar: I’ve had an obligation to discharge eleven of the fourteen days this month. That included today, when I had to take Laura to work at ten and retrieve her at four. I was mostly asleep, around 10:30, when I felt Toby snuggle up. “How nice; he’s put his head on my leg,” I thought, before I slept some more.