a morning in the life...

At 2:00 A.M., Tigra's up and about, ready to play. It begins with the brush of whiskers against my arm as she sniffs my elbow. I can't imagine what olfactory delights there could be on just an ordinary elbow, but she soon moves on to attacking my toes under the covers. I'm not so sleepy that I don't find this amusing for a minute or two until she bites a little too hard and I tell her, "Go to sleep!"

Being a cat, she pays me no mind other than to explore other parts of the room. She's in search of paper to shred--anything will do, but she has a special affinity for school notes and assignments. I try to put everything shreddable away, but she has discovered that if she stands on tiptoe under the desk she can reach the back of the drawer and tease out a piece of paper or two. I threaten her with solitary confinement in the bathroom (if she's been really naughty, that means behind the shower doors since she knows how to open the bathroom door and, with a bit of luck, can do it in 5 minutes or so). Owing less to my threat and more to the call of nature, she makes a restroom stop. I hear her scratching in her litter box and know that this is what has had her so wound up. She'll calm down now and curl up in her bed or at my feet. I fall asleep.

We're up again at 5:45. She knows if she makes a bit of noise with paper or plastic that I'll get up and put food in her bowl. I meet my mistress' demands and fall back into bed.

8:00. I'm up and she's dozing, content to have me scratch under her chin. I'm always amazed at how much her little chin resembles the chin of her much-larger cousin, the king of the jungle. She purrs loudly. I decided some time ago that I'm waiting to meet a man who can purr. I'm still single.

We're in the shower. Well, I'm in it and she's on top of it. Her latest trick is to sit on the back of the toilet, eye the top of the shower door ("She's doing the math," my best friend says), and then make the leap to the top. From there she can keep an eye on me, safe from the spray of the water. She used to come into the shower and walk around the farthest edges of the tub, but occasionally she slipped and found herself a little too wet. She's recently decided she prefers a higher vantage point and, like a first-rate gymnast, patrols the metal balance beam. After a bit she lies flat on her tummy on the narrow ledge, one paw dangling in a demonstration of cat sangfroid. She seldom stays longer than a minute after I finish with my shower--what's the point with no one to admire her cat cool?