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Sleep-like-a-cat weather

Oliver Dover, tabby-in-residence, recently demonstrated a tutorial on proper behavior during this wintry fall weather we’ve been experiencing. Of course, fall is spring’s temperamental cousin, and by the time you read this, an 80-degree mood is forecast.

Number three season changes its mind more often than Wall Street these days. Got stock?

Lest you suspect I’m a lazy lout after you read the rest of this, and therefore deem me easily managed by a cat, here is the lead-in and my best excuse today for succumbing to his lounging ways.

I’d just returned from an early-morning chauffeuring run for friend Lynn to her second de-cataracting in so many weeks. Eye doctors like to perform their duty early, as in, I had to set an alarm — a thing I avoid like line dancing.

Surgeons like to sneak up on their subjects. A patient’s eyes are not fully open at 7 a.m., so anything is an improvement. But these doctors bring clarity of sight where there once was blurred vision and mistaken colors, saving us from the embarrassment of wearing one black sock and one blue. They perform this miraculous feat up to 10 times a day. Ten eyeballs are given a new lease on life.

The waiting room was packed with individuals awaiting their descaling. Did I say it was early? I witnessed the rising sun as we drove across town, for Pete’s sake. Roosters stood agog from their crowing podiums feeling a bit useless as we motored past.

While waiting for the eyeball staff to jackhammer the obstruction from Lynn’s lens and suck it out with a shop vac, I parked next to Bear Creek and ate hard-boiled eggs, cold turkey sausage patties, and a nectarine, in a stupor, in the rain. There was no way I could fit breakfast in before leaving. Coffee, yes. An obvious priority since I would be expected to see the road better than a woozy one-eyed woman and get us home safely.

I felt within my rights going for added fortification from the free “coffee” they offered inside the waiting area. At least that’s what the sign said it was. Patients and their loved ones should receive compensation for drinking what they pass off as something made from coffee beans. I watered their bark mulch with the remainder in my cup. I mean, with what these folks charge for glasses, don’t you think they could spring for Good Bean? Maybe it’s this special, pure diet I’ve been on for a month. I can now decipher yuk on my palate with keenness.

Once I saw Lynnsky safely home to her bed and a much-needed nap, my column deadline loomed like a Sasquatch in the underbrush. You know it’s lurking out there but can’t nail it down. I opened my laptop to the weekly blank stare. It was then that Oliver noticed my dragging eyelids, took the cue and walked around the computer and onto my chest, where he began sandpapering my chin with his tongue. He hunkered down and soon began to snore like the old man he is. Have I mentioned he snores like a baby elephant? Well, he was right, of course. I hadn’t gotten the proper sleep, and the day had become alternately drizzly/sunny/cozy/pumpkin-spice flavored. One could only nap, and so I did, but only until the maintenance crew blew in and reminded me it was a work day.

At this point you may be comparing this week’s column with the aforementioned coffee rant and muttering how you too can taste yuk on your mental palate. But with a work-avoiding cat as an ever-present example, and little sleep, this is the resulting brew.

Peggy Dover is a freelance writer with a dominant napping gene. Wake her at pcdover@hotmail.com.