It is 4:20. AM. 0420. As in it is before the butt crack of dawn. I am up. Coffee is before me. I've even loaded the dishwasher. Two of the dogs have been out to potty, but they went back to bed.
I hate days like this. I wake up for whatever reason and absolutely can't go back to sleep. Don't get me wrong, I try. But then I start to toss and turn, and eventually, my bladder wakes up. Or a cat realizes I'm awake. Such was the case today.
Smalls has taken to sleeping all night with us again. Always on my side of the bed, and always as close as physically possible to my body. Sometimes, he crawls up on top of me. I swear it feels like a 25 lb sack of flour on me.
So mid-turn, he plops himself in my rib cage and stretches full out. Of course, I have to give him a few scratches. What kind of cat mom would I be if I didn't? That inspires him to stretch even further and roll over to expose his belly. He honestly thinks he's part dog and loves to have his belly scratched. Yes, I obliged. He stretches out his paws as far as possible, throws his head back in delirious joy, and the purring begins. When he starts kneading thin air, I know I've found today's sweet spot.
We remain like this for a good 30 minutes. The crazy lady awake and the cat purring happily while I tickle his tummy. And at roughly 3:45, it struck me. Does the lady have to be crazy before loving cats, or does the cat make the lady crazy? Since I've had a love affair with cats since I was old enough to pull their tails and pick them up by their whiskers, I'm guessing my crazy came first. And all the cats in my life have come along for what they knew would be a one-of-a-kind ride. Complete with belly rubs.