Worst night's sleep EVER.

For the past few months, I've had some slight insomnia.  I can fall asleep on the couch during the day and nap like a child (something I have never been able to do), but when it comes to actually going to sleep at night, it takes awhile.  So last night, I was going through my nightly ritual to aid me in falling asleep: reading quietly while Keith slumbered peacefully next to me.  This worked, and I fell asleep around 11:10.

I awoke at midnight to the sound of what I imagine to be a 1920s machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!  As my weakening abdominal muscles rustily pulled me up, I was certain that I would have to call 911 for some hapless soul who had been mowed down in our usually tranquil suburb. I rushed to the window, looking for signs of a speak-easy or Bonnie and Clyde when I heard Keith's voice from behind me. "Firecrackers," he pronounced drowsily.  

My heartbeat returning to a somewhat normal pace, I crawled back into bed and willed myself to go back to the REM sleep from which I had been mercilessly torn.  Enter Cleo.

Let me first explain that we have two very different cats.  In coloring, they are nearly the same because they are litter-mates, born of the same parents.  Both are black with white "tuxedo" elements, such as bibs, tummies, and paws.  They also both tend to run from large groups of strangers.  This is where the similarity ends.  Tony, our boy, is huge, weighing in at roughly 14 pounds, while Cleo, our girl, is a petite 8.  He tends to meow only when he is hungry or wants something (like cuddles), whereas she yowls all day and night just to hear her own voice.  They even differ in the way they give love.

Tony has always been what I've called a "Gumby-cat"; he allows you to put him into nearly any position and stays there purring.  His zaftig 15 pounds aside, this makes for a comfortable cat and human, resulting in happy symbiosis.  We are quite convinced that Cleo, on the other hand, dips her feet into buckets of concrete before pouncing us.  Each step she takes on our bodies feels like a sumo wrestler on stilts has invaded our bed.  I have tried time and time again to make her more like that Gumby-cat, but the more I try to position her, the stiffer she becomes.  I have learned that it's easier to just let her find a comfortable place to lie down, no matter how long this takes.

Last night, it took a good long while.  Cleo, ever the persnickety one, decided that she wanted to be as near to my head as possible.  She traipsed around, pointy paws landing on my skull, chest, and abdomen, trying to find a spot that would be sufficient for her needs.  When she finally settled on one, her body completely covered my nose and mouth (hardly a good situation for me). As I pried her off of my head, two totally over-reactive thoughts occurred to me: 

1. Do I have a brain tumor? (No kidding! Scientists have found that cats and dogs often sniff at the site of a malignant tumor, finding it long before symptoms present)
2. What if my cat suffocates my baby by trying to "cuddle" with her?

Eeeek! Neither of these thoughts acted as the sheep jumping over the fence that I desperately needed in the night.  I tossed and turned, fending Cleo off of me and wondering if I was going crazy.  Certainly this small cat could not be coming back for more as I tossed her unceremoniously off the bed, right?  Wrong. Here she was, over and over, crowding at my hair with her itchy whiskers, pummeling my neck with those cement paws, nuzzling me again and again! 

Here is what I would say if she could understand English:

Oh Cleo. I love you more than you could ever know. I adore your idiosyncrasies: your sweet fuzzy mustache (see the picture), your adorable singing in the morning, and even those unbelievably hard paws.  But please, I implore you, come cuddle in an appropriate place quickly and without trying to kill me. Please.

I even tried to reason with her at one point, but it only served to awaken Keith, who loudly pronounced, "Huh-tum!" (I'm not sure what that means, but I think it can be translated into the speech above.) So I returned to the repeated flinging of this small, albeit muscular, cat to the end of the bed and she continued to return to me.  Finally, I caved. I needed sleep. We had been at this for nearly two hours. I picked her up and looked her in the eyes. We needed to have what my colleagues affectionately call a "Come to Jesus" meeting.  At this point, I was stern and undeniably in charge.  She met my eyes and knew I meant business.  I hurled her to the end of the bed for the last time and I heard as her heavy paws thumped the carpet below.

Now, one would think that this was a victory.  Yay!  I have earned sleep at last!  But rather than relish my win, I just lay there feeling guilty.  My poor kitty just wanted to cuddle her mom and here I was banishing her to the cold floor.  

Eventually, I did fall asleep again and after four hours of uninterrupted rest, I awakened to that damned cat snoozing on my head, paws entangled in my hair.  Sheesh.