Nocturnal Beasts

There was a time when I imagined myself nocturnal. It was an image that went well with writing: the gaunt and haggard scribe throwing candle shadows all over the walls while the rest of the world wasted their lives with Mr. Sandman. I had sharp teeth and my eyes burnt through walls.

You can only hold on to a fantasy like that for so long. Especially when you really love sleep. I love sleep. I love everything having to do with sleep: beds, pillows, sheets, darkness, lullabies. I once thought I would make a good midwife. Then I realized that midwives lose a lot of sleep. I once had a bed that I used to fantasize about during the day.

I am not nocturnal, but my friend Frank is. She was born for sleeping most of the day. And most of the night. The rest of the time, she attempts to fulfill her destiny as a hunter. Birds, mostly, but mayflies, moths and dragonflies will do.

Or me and a full night of sleep.

All through the winter, she has been my hot water bottle, my heart warmer, irresistible when she climbs under the covers and stretches out with her back against my belly. Compared to her sisters-huntresses, Taz and April, Frank has been angelic. Where Taz has been short tempered and quick-clawed, Frank's been tolerant, a balm, a bean bag. Where April has been demanding and cranky, Frank's been generous and serene. A buddha with black fur and golden bedroom eyes.

Now it's Spring and the other night my sweet bunny became my evil nemesis. Or was it this morning that I woke to the sound of claws on wood, a sound that struck deep to my marrow. At first, I thought it was a wild animal clawing at the side of the house, then perhaps an animal accidentally locked into a bedroom. Then, I realized it was Frank, on her back under the bed, propelling herself from top to bottom and side to side with her claws. I grabbed her as she slid across the carpet with the grace of an ice skater. I pulled her up onto the bed, where I was fully awake. She was panting and joy poured off her in a halo of shed hair. As soon as I fell back to sleep, she returned to her gleeful gliding.

So yes, I sought revenge, waking her every time I caught her stretched out in a spot of sun, singing into her twitching ears that song "Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, French word, French word, French word...?" But I couldn't match the delirious giddiness with which she had interrupted my already patchy sleep.

Last night I had the best night of sleep I've had in a long long time. When I woke up, Frank was wide awake beside my head.

Singing