I lay down to take a nap this afternoon and had my phone with me by the bedside table (normally I turn the damned thing off or have it on a charger somewhere), so when Steve jumped up on my chest and started demanding food, I took the opportunity to take some pictures so you will know how my day starts EVERY. SINGLE. MORNING.
First, he walks into the room and announces his presence. That sometimes wakes me up, and I try to be very still and pretend I am still asleep and don’t hear him. Then I lie there hoping that playing possum works, but usually it does not, and since Steve is plus size, the next thing I hear is him defying all the laws of physics and and gravity projecting himself onto my bed. From there, he slowly climbs on top of my chest, and gets his face really close to mine, sometimes so close I can feel his whiskers. Like this:
The key to possum is not making eye contact and just not moving. So he’ll sit there and stare at me until his gaze penetrates my eyelids. Other times he will knead, start out slowly, increasing the pace and force and the amount of claw every few seconds until it feels like a bantamweight boxer is working out on the heavy bag. Sometimes even more aggressive measures are employed, like a swift “THWAP” to the face:
Notice the serious look on his face as he delivers a deft right hook. When I finally wake up, he stands on me triumphantly, declaring victory, letting me know what I have to do:
“Rise and shine, fatty. Home team needs breakfast.”