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It's a great morning when I say it's a great morning

You know that "great day in the morning" feeling — when the dawn's early light first peeks through your bedroom windows? Isn't it wonderful how the merest sliver of sunshine causes ones eyes to fly open and their heart to fill with gratitude?

"Glory be! It's a brand new day!"

Really? This is you? Gads.

Forget red state/blue state differences. Forget who wants the seat up or down. Forget ketchup versus mustard. The world is truly divided into morning people and the rest of us who would like to smother you.

Luckily for all, we natural-born slugabeds don't become fully functional until after 10 a.m. And by then you've moved well out of pillow range.

Friends and family have been advised not to call me before 9 a.m. or after 9 p.m. Otherwise someone better be on their way to the hospital. Or have lottery winnings they feel compelled to share.

All my life early risers have insisted I'm wasting the best part of the day. If I'd simply go to bed earlier ... Blah. Blah. Blah.

Like other facets of the human condition, I believe circadian rhythms are determined in the womb. One is either born a morning person. Or they are born sensible.

While I may not be a robin, neither am I an owl. I don't stay up into the wee hours unless forced by exigent circumstances — or unless the party's really, really good.

I like the warm snoozy feeling of drifting slowly back to consciousness. And then rolling over, snuggling deep into my pillow and slipping back into dreamland. I like it over and over and over. Until the sun is shining from a respectable elevation.

I do not like to be ripped from my slumbers by alarm clocks, chirpy greetings (be they human or avian) or a cat paw to the piehole.

Of course, the Laws of Inverse Attraction being what they are, I am surrounded by dawn's-early-lighters.

The Englishman, my beau, snaps to attention with the restless energy of a sentry on patrol. The man is not so much an early riser as he is a workaholic. Before his feet even hit the floor, the mental check-list of all the things he's got to do is pages long. There are geriatric cars to be rescued from junk yards. Old 1950s trucks to be repaired. And they will surely turn into rusty pumpkins if he's not on the job at the first note of nature's reveille.

I must admit my parrots are hilarious and adorable in the mornings. Or at least I think so once I'm fully awake. But, as we've established, that takes a while. Because speaking aloud is ruinous to my late-morning dozing, their wolf whistles and "I love you! Wanna come out!" "Wanna get up?" chatter is met with resolute silence on my end.

Instead, I try sending salutations and requests telepathically.

"Yes. Yes. I love you two, too. But please engage in your dawn-greeting rituals quietly. Some of us are still snoozing."

Squiggy could give a rip about my wants, needs or desires. She's a cat. And she's hungry.

My eyes may still be firmly shut, but I know when she's there wanting her breakfast. She sits by my head, staring. I can feel her vibrations. She's purring. Her little kitty muzzle is nuzzling my kisser.

"Got food?" she asks.

She ups her game with a gentle tap of her paw on my lips.

"Hungry. Me. Need food for here. Get it?"

I don't get how anyone can be hungry before 10 a.m. But I can see through my eyelids that the room is getting brighter. My inner light has gone from deep midnight blue to shades of magenta. The time is nigh for rising, I decide with a sigh.

Mid-stretch, I reach out to gently stroke Squiggy's soft fur. But clearly I've been too slow on the uptake for Her Highness. She leaps from her Sphinx-like sitting position to that of a lioness attacking her prey. In a lightening flash move, she chomps down firmly on the fleshy pad of my right hand. And darts off the bed.

Great day in the morning.

Reach reporter Sanne Specht at 541-776-4497 or e-mail sspecht@mailtribune.com.