Sharing Our Passion.

I’ve been sleeping with Jack a long time now.
Every night.
So far, things have been strictly platonic.
But that’s not to say that either of us lacks passion in the night-time.
No, there’s plenty of that.

Here is what happens each and every night.
Firstly, I stay awake much too late.
I read, and putt around, and put off bedtime because I am so seldom really tired at night. I think I inherited this trait from my father. He was a real nightowl.
I will usually be at my all-purpose desk/table, in computer-glow and candlelight, either reading or writing something. And Jack will be curled up in his amazon.com box next to me, on his own little table where I have strewn a hodgepodge of papers and books.
Sooner or later, I realize that I must sleep, like it or not.
When I finally do hit the hay, I usually go in face down. And not really face down but sort of to the side a bit, with my left arm under the pillow, and my hand protruding out into Jack’s side of the bed.
Jack.
Like clockwork, about three or four minutes after the lights are off, he lightly jumps onto the bed as though he is concerned about disturbing me. And as he does so, there is this sound emitted, like I guess it would be a rush of air through his tracheal purr-apparatus... an impossible sound to spell, but maybe “pthrrrrrr” would be close. And it quivers sort of, almost like he is giggling real quiet and quick.
He then moves very tentatively, like he’s walking on waves, and he makes his way over to where my hand is. And he sets himself down, right there.
So, when I just lift my hand a bit, he gets right in under it and I rough him up. I scratch his head, his ears, and even the front of his face. Then I just do nothing and let him tell me where he needs a good scratching. [What I like to call, “a good rubbinz.”]
He’ll twist his head around, as though saying “There. Oh yeah. Right there dad!”
And he purrs like a Ferrarri.
He also kneads.
What is it with cats, that they have this need to knead?
As Jack purrs away, he will knead the bed as though it is a big pile of dough.
Knead.
“To mix and work (dough, clay, etc.) into a uniform mass, usually by pressing, turning, and pulling with the hands. To work upon by thumps or squeeze of the hands; massage.”

That is what Jack is doing.
He is massaging the bed. And sometimes, me.
He will dig and dig like that, and sometimes he will end up kneading my arm.
He is not declawed, and he is pointy as pins.
Parts of this rather expensive damask comforter I currently have on my bed are ruined. Partially shredded by Jack’s insatiable night-time kneads!

Occasionally, one night in ten, the three or four minutes will go by... and I will be lying there... but Jack will not do his little giggly jump onto the bed.
So I lay there. And I worry.
The lack of Jack reminds me of how not tired I am.
So I get out of bed and look for him.

In a two-room apartment, he can’t have gone far.
There he is.
I stand there like an idiot in underwear.
He looks up at me with those blues of his, and meows “So if I want to spend one night on the couch there’s something wrong with that?”

I stare him down.
Then I turn away, and, sure enough, he follows me.
In the end, what I’m mistaking for a renewal of affection is probably moreso along the lines of the following thought in Jack’s cat-mind.... “You know, he is pretty good with that food dish. I don’t wanna screw that up!”
But I don’t really care. I don’t care what he is thinking. I just want him in bed with me.
And soon there I am, with my arm outstretched. And there he is, doing his little Dance of the Pointy Paws.
And I finally fall asleep, humbled yet again by the fact that I need my cat more than he kneads me.

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