I Forgot to Reset the Cat
That extra hour that comes with the autumn "fall back" is something I look forward to. Even though I know it comes with early darkness, leafless trees, and the chill and snow of winter. This year, I remembered to change all of the clocks and devices that don't automatically adjust. Well, all but my car clock that takes two or three tries to stick.
So, the first morning of Central Standard Time was, of course, a Sunday, my early day. Still up early, but that extra hour felt luxurious. Then came Monday. A day that I can take my time. Sleep in just a bit. What was that sound wrenching me out of my slumber? Ah, my cat.
Ms. Maggie is not noisy. She doesn't often speak. And when she does, it is with a soft voice, just a small interval above the middle range. But this morning, that voice is insistent. What? I roll over, head under the pillow. That seems to work for a while, or maybe my snoring blocks the meows. Soon, though, I rise out of the sleepy fog and see that the sky has lightened. Ms. Maggie is ready for her day and doesn't care a bit for what the clock says. It is morning, and she is ready to explore.
By the time I get into my robe and stumble down the stairs, she is perched expectantly at the back door. No time to even put the tea kettle on to heat. First, let Maggie out. I open the door to a rush of icy air. She sits. And sits. Sniffs at the air and the threshold. "In or out," I grumble. At last, she dashes--a quick circle around the terrace, a romp up the hill. The aura of field mouse? A flash of chipmunk? Moments later, as the tea kettle is boiling, she's back on the stoop. Time for breakfast. In she comes. I French press the coffee, barely settle into my chair with the steaming cup, ready to collect myself for the day ahead. But, no. Back to the door. Look out, chipmunks. The last was a practice run. This one's for real! How long does it take a cat to adjust to a time change? Or--how long does it take the human?
So, the first morning of Central Standard Time was, of course, a Sunday, my early day. Still up early, but that extra hour felt luxurious. Then came Monday. A day that I can take my time. Sleep in just a bit. What was that sound wrenching me out of my slumber? Ah, my cat.
Ms. Maggie is not noisy. She doesn't often speak. And when she does, it is with a soft voice, just a small interval above the middle range. But this morning, that voice is insistent. What? I roll over, head under the pillow. That seems to work for a while, or maybe my snoring blocks the meows. Soon, though, I rise out of the sleepy fog and see that the sky has lightened. Ms. Maggie is ready for her day and doesn't care a bit for what the clock says. It is morning, and she is ready to explore.
By the time I get into my robe and stumble down the stairs, she is perched expectantly at the back door. No time to even put the tea kettle on to heat. First, let Maggie out. I open the door to a rush of icy air. She sits. And sits. Sniffs at the air and the threshold. "In or out," I grumble. At last, she dashes--a quick circle around the terrace, a romp up the hill. The aura of field mouse? A flash of chipmunk? Moments later, as the tea kettle is boiling, she's back on the stoop. Time for breakfast. In she comes. I French press the coffee, barely settle into my chair with the steaming cup, ready to collect myself for the day ahead. But, no. Back to the door. Look out, chipmunks. The last was a practice run. This one's for real! How long does it take a cat to adjust to a time change? Or--how long does it take the human?
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