24 February 2014

Every morning, even if I stumbled to the kitchen earlier to feed the cats, Max comes into the bedroom between 9-9:30 and wakes me up. He tends to take this job seriously, making sure that I get out of bed, get dressed, and take my meds. I almost rely on him; he seems to understand when I'm sick and doesn't get me up then, but otherwise it's pretty rare that my furry alarm doesn't jump on the bed and meow in my ear.

I've stayed up a little later than normal the last couple of nights, which probably disturbs the cats' routine (that doesn't stop them from wanting breakfast around 7:15; they understand that if the Man was not in bed at night, he'll be coming through the door in time to feed them. If he's in bed, Max will try to get me up while Buddah works on the Spouse Thingy) and last night they stayed up with me, trying to talk me out of extra food. I think I finally went to bed at 2:30.

Then comes this morning. I rolled over and figured it had to be a little before 9, because there was no furry lump curled up by my head. I debated waiting for him--he does seem to enjoy being the one to get me up--or just going ahead, because dammit, I had to pee.

My small, often-faulty sense of logic kicked in: just check the time. If it was only 2-3 minutes before 9, I could probably wait. If it was 9:15, I'd be better off getting up.

So I rolled over again and looked at the clock.

10:45.

Seriously...it was nearly 11 o'clock and no Max.

No, I was not worried. My first impulse was Hell yeah, I caught up on some sleep and my second was to feel a bit guilty because I was likely the reason he didn't wake me up. He was sound asleep in the living room, probably tired because I kept him up last night.

Now it's a little after midnight and I'm wide awake because...well, I got up at 10:45. Max is asleep in another room because I'm in the living room making noise. Which means tomorrow he's going to pry my ass out of bed around 8:45, just because he can.