the silent alarm

For over a year now, I've barely needed the electronic alarm clock that I nonetheless faithfully set every night. I have a failproof backup that no weather or blackout could fool: my cat. Or rather, his stomach.

He knows his breakfast time. So, anywhere from six o'clock to seven in the morning, I wake to the incredible heaviness of cat paws treading all over my back. (When he hits the right sore spots, it's like a very nice massage.) He lays his head on my shoulder and purrs in my ear. When I grunt and roll onto my back, he prances across my chest and flops onto me and rolls around with happiness. He shoves his head into my face -- his equivalent of a good-morning-I-love-you-I'm-so-happy-you're-awake-please-feed-me kiss. He mrrrows.

It's all very sweet. But lately it hasn't been as effective. Kind of like the radio alarm gets to be ignorable.

So he's invented the beeper setting: chasing his tail. On me. All over me. At six o'clock in the morning.

This is hilarious, but much less endearing. So I've invented the snooze button: a good swift scissor-kick under the covers, which effectively sweeps him off the bed. And five minutes later he's at it again. I can never decide if I'm furious or deeply amused.

I can see it in the history books: And the Breakfast Wars carried on well into the afternoons on Saturdays...