My conscience is free. My worries are strangely light. My constitution, reasonably healthy. So what keeps me sleep free these days? The little noisemaker above.
This is The Bunny. She is a litter mate and sister to the late Figaro. We adopted them both at the same time 19 years ago. While the two felines were together every day of their lives, they never actually liked one another. After Figaro passed away, I felt certain some manifestation of sibling shock would seize her and she'd suffer a form of feline post traumatic shock. No dice. The Bunny regaled in having extra lap space to herself; the first crack at the food bowl; the full time attentions of the grooming brush. No, The Bunny took full advantage of the elimination of her rival after nearly two decades and she preened accordingly.
Unlike her brother, she enjoys staggering good health. She's the Ronald Reagan of cats--while her health is optimal, her mind is going. She's clearly undergoing the full flush of cat dementia. She slumbers most of the day and rises just as I get home from work. Her displeasure having to wait even five minutes for her portion of Sheba is evident in continuous droning yowls. After she dines she prowls the halls of the apartment and here, the clearest manifestation of her diminishing faculties: she gets lost. She sits in the hallway staring at the wall and yowls with a pained distress. At this point someone will yell at her to snap her out of her temporary cat-tonia, where she will revert to her needy yelping. This pattern continues throughout the night.
Sometimes The Bunny will willingly come to bed with me where I can cajole her into sleeping. This usually ends abruptly, say around 2 am, when she feels compelled to walk on my head, spread out on some part of my body like a tiny furry afghan or stand inches from my face and start me from sleep with a noisy aria of mewing. Once she has succeeded in driving me from my comforting bed, the symphony of yowling commences. After placation with food, petting or reorientation in the hallway, she'll finally tuck herself in her Ultrasuede catbed and doze for the rest of the day..which is usually about the same time I am leaving for work.
She's an old girl and with probably another year or two in her. Can I tolerate another year's bleating with good humor? Barely, but of course I'll do it for her.
3 comments:
We had a similar problem with my late cat, Nadine, the last few years of her sweet life. She had by then moved in with my parents (long story) and for years was a calm, serene, fabulous cat. Around the age of 18 I guess, she started getting her 'beads' out in the middle of the night and roaming the halls with them, myowling loudly. The beads were random strands of Mardi Gras beads that she loved to chase anytime she could get someone to throw them. But this was a daytime affair. It was, that is, until she got the kitty dementia of which you speak.
Finally my parents had to start closing the door to the other part of the house when they went to bed, and I guess she got to where she'd calm herself down and go to sleep. It never seemed to bother her that she had to sleep in a separate part of the house. Poor kid...I know she was just confused. God rest her incredible cat soul.
Just put her in your guest bedroom. It's the least J can do.
She's probably just part siamese. Just take after her with a squirt gun. One good encounter with the hall door should take care of the problem. Otherwise my only suggestion would be something you would do with a child; reset their sleep schedule. Dose her up with some catnip about 10pm. By the time she comes down and sleeps it off, you'll be leaving for work. Did the trick for Declan, now if I can only get him to stop clawing the furniture.
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