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May. 17th, 2001 10:11 amThere's some vague guilt going on in my head this morning - I took the bus to work. Not much guilt, because I did take the steep way up the hill and was on time to work, but it's there.
My alarm goes off at 6. It's a tri-function gizmo, so the first alarm isn't really something that's supposed to wake people - it's a white noise, a bubbling brook that gently nudges me from sleep into wakefulness (usually along to the screaming accompaniment of my bladder.)
It's no mach for me, though. I got up, peed, and got back into my loverly snuggly covers and dozed, not quite dreaming until the radio alarm went off at a quarter to 7. That's the real alarm - the mindless blathering of the radio announcers (today it was about the naked cyclists at the Fremont Solstice Parade next month) and perhaps one song before they cue the commercials.
Except that this morning, as I was siddling over to the edge of the bed, preparing to fall out, this little black minx decided that it was past time I paid attention to him.
He sat on me. I sometimes complain about my cats walking on my head, but they rarely actually walk on me - instead they use my pillows as a freeway. Not this morning - this morning Hobbes walked around my head, where I was clutching the pillow and the last remnants of sleep, and crawled onto my shoulder, purring up a storm.
I don't exactly go all gooey over animals. At least, not gooey-squeally. Ick. I just have this giant soft spot for them, which will translates differently depending on the animal and with felines, includes never ever ever wanting to disturb a purring cat. A purring cat is one of the seven wonders of the universe - a mobile ball of soft fur rumbling in pleasure. And my cats are (of course) even more precious to me - I know them, and their habits - how rarely Calvin wants petting, but when he wants it, it's a wonder to sit and stroke his down-soft fur. Or when Laurier, who used to cower behind the toilet in fear of everything, now will jump into my lap five times in a row, even after I toss him off and sit with my knees knocking my chin - he'll still try.
And of course, Hobbes, my little slut-boy, who will purr at the slightest provocation - I'll look at him funny and he'll purr and try to translate that glance into a physical caress. Hobbes, who perched up on my shoulder until I rolled him over and gave him a belly rub and an ear scritch and finally, finally dumped him over on the other side of the bed and crawled toward the shower.
So I wasn't late, and didn't walk, and it was all in a good cause anyway. Petting a cat is like smelling the roses along the way.
My alarm goes off at 6. It's a tri-function gizmo, so the first alarm isn't really something that's supposed to wake people - it's a white noise, a bubbling brook that gently nudges me from sleep into wakefulness (usually along to the screaming accompaniment of my bladder.)
It's no mach for me, though. I got up, peed, and got back into my loverly snuggly covers and dozed, not quite dreaming until the radio alarm went off at a quarter to 7. That's the real alarm - the mindless blathering of the radio announcers (today it was about the naked cyclists at the Fremont Solstice Parade next month) and perhaps one song before they cue the commercials.
Except that this morning, as I was siddling over to the edge of the bed, preparing to fall out, this little black minx decided that it was past time I paid attention to him.
He sat on me. I sometimes complain about my cats walking on my head, but they rarely actually walk on me - instead they use my pillows as a freeway. Not this morning - this morning Hobbes walked around my head, where I was clutching the pillow and the last remnants of sleep, and crawled onto my shoulder, purring up a storm.
I don't exactly go all gooey over animals. At least, not gooey-squeally. Ick. I just have this giant soft spot for them, which will translates differently depending on the animal and with felines, includes never ever ever wanting to disturb a purring cat. A purring cat is one of the seven wonders of the universe - a mobile ball of soft fur rumbling in pleasure. And my cats are (of course) even more precious to me - I know them, and their habits - how rarely Calvin wants petting, but when he wants it, it's a wonder to sit and stroke his down-soft fur. Or when Laurier, who used to cower behind the toilet in fear of everything, now will jump into my lap five times in a row, even after I toss him off and sit with my knees knocking my chin - he'll still try.
And of course, Hobbes, my little slut-boy, who will purr at the slightest provocation - I'll look at him funny and he'll purr and try to translate that glance into a physical caress. Hobbes, who perched up on my shoulder until I rolled him over and gave him a belly rub and an ear scritch and finally, finally dumped him over on the other side of the bed and crawled toward the shower.
So I wasn't late, and didn't walk, and it was all in a good cause anyway. Petting a cat is like smelling the roses along the way.
