Night Watch

One morning at work my co-workers and I chatted about the weekend before the day’s business began.

            “Did you see Saturday Night Live this weekend?” asked Shawn. “That political parody was hilarious.”

            “I’m no night owl. I’m an early bird,” responded Teresa. “Saturday and Sunday I started the day with a walk at sunrise."
             "So what are you?” Teresa and Shawn looked at me expectantly, “A night owl or an early bird?”

            Actually, I’m neither. I have a tedious physical condition which causes chronic pain. As a friend with rheumatoid arthritis remarked quite accurately, “The problem with chronic pain is not, ironically, that it hurts. It’s that it wears you out.”

            So I’m tired. Ideally, I could sleep nine hours a night. Realistically, I hope for seven or eight. But here’s what my nights are like.

            At about nine p.m. I take a long, hot bath to ease my aching muscles. Chloe sits nervously on the bathmat by the tub. She finds it deeply disturbing that I would immerse myself in liquid. I towel off and crawl into bed, fluffing the pillows and grabbing a news magazine. I plan to read a little before I fall asleep.

            I stretch out on my back with a sigh. Just as I start the first article, Chloe leaps onto my chest, her head facing my toes. She kneads and purrs luxuriously. I try to adjust my reading angle, twisting this way and that, trying to focus on the page and avoid the big, furry butt creeping closer to my face. After several unsuccessful attempts to peruse the text, I put the magazine aside and turn off the bedside lamp. What the heck, I need the rest!

            The steady hum of Chloe’s purr lulls me to sleep. After an hour or so she jumps off my chest with a cheerful meow.  “Don’t worry,” she seems to say, “I have to go but I’ll be back soon. In the meantime, Annie will protect you.”

            Annie jumps into my chest. Her razor sharp claws dig in just beneath my collar bones. “Don’t worry,” she seems to say, butting her head into the space between my jaw and my chest. “I’ll protect you. When I have to leave, Chloe will be back.” Annie purrs softly into my throat as I drift back off to sleep.

            I wake up a few hours later with the sound of Annie crunching kibble and thumping down the stairs. Chloe jumps back onto the bed, stretching sideways on the mattress, leaving me about ten inches on the far side of the bed. Hanging precariously onto the edge, I fall asleep, awakened by an odd sensation. Chloe, purring and kneading the blanket intently, is trying to insert her tail into my mouth.

            It’s 4:30 in the morning. I give up on sleep. I fluff the pillows again, sit up and open the magazine. I might as well read. Annie and Chloe are at my feet, each on one corner of the mattress. They sit like little sentries, facing the bedroom door, alert for intruders.  At 5:30, I put the magazine aside, turn off the lamp, and close my eyes for one hour until the alarm clock awakens me for the day. I stumble, bleary-eyed, to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.

            The cats jump reluctantly off the bed while I straighten the quilt. They leap back onto the mattress, sighing and stretching before curling into cozy balls of fur. I pet each one gently. Each opens one eye, just a slit. “Go to work,” they seem to say, “and leave us in peace. Last night was strenuous and we’re on guard tomorrow night as well. We need to get our rest so we can take good care of you.”

            I tiptoe downstairs and, yawning, brew a cup of coffee before heading off to work.