In the small hours of the night, I lay in that vague state between sleep and waking, surrounded by snuggling felines and far too many pillows. Angus was bedded down between my feet, and Ben was functioning as a large tabby butt-warmer.* The alarm clock threw blue shadows across the bed and the large copper mask of Ganesh watched beatifically from the wall over a tableaux possibly entitled “Still Life With Woman And Cats.”

And then I heard a noise.

A very…strange…noise.

I sat up. So did Ben.

Angus was snoring.

He was stretched out full length on his back, spine in one of those impossible feline curves, front paws crossed and extended, looking painfully adorable, and he was snoring. Not a simple snore, either. It started with a low, descending gurgle–Huururrrurrrggghhhrrhhh–and then went to a high two-part noise, the world’s smallest hunting horn–taaa-RAAAH!

Ben and I stared.

Hurrrrrurrrurggghhrrrh….taa-RAAA! Hurrrrrurrrurggghhrrrh….taa-RAAAH!

“Oh dear god,” I said.


Now, I lived with a snorer for many years, and I have occasionally been accused of making inroads in that department myself, so I know that if you nudge them, usually that brings them close enough to consciousness to cease snoring. Still, I didn’t really want to poke a sleeping cat who’s trust I am still trying to earn. Particularly not when they’re so damn cute. I tried flexing my calf muscle, which he was using as a pillow.


I flexed somewhat harder. Ben made a disgruntled noise and laid back down, taking advantage of me sitting up to ooze partway around behind my back.

It occurred to me that for a formerly feral cat, Angus was an awfully sound sleeper.


I did a one-legged Fred Astaire number. This served only to alter the pitch and cadence of the snore.


“Angus,” I said, hesitantly, “you’re snoring.”  This was just as effective on Angus as it had ever been on my ex-husband.


Ben let it be known that if I didn’t lie back down, I was getting a feline bolster, and he wasn’t going to want to move.


I surrendered to my fate, re-negotiated the borders with Ben–he gained more ground than I did–and went back to sleep. Oblivious to it all, Angus snored on.

*Undignified, possibly. But for whatever reason of circulation, my posterior gets COLD. I’m not entirely sure why–my toes, sure, that’s the farthest point of the body, I expect them to be chilly, but why the butt? My only guess is that the layers of fat act as an insulator and keep the heat from reaching the skin, so it’s down to capillary action and they can’t keep up. I have generally found a male sleeping companion to be ideal for warming this region up–human is preferred, but an eighteen pound tomcat that generates heat like a small furry singularity ain’t bad.

Leave a Reply