Who's there?

(Snickers circa 2004)
I am listening to a client run through her activity for the week when I notice the call has gone quiet. I look up from my notes to the computer screen and she's looking at me with a half-smile. "You didn't hear me, did you?" she says. "You look tired." Mind you, she's hundreds of miles away looking at me through a PC camera, so I must look a mess.
After we get off the call, I check my look in the mirror and nothing seems out of sorts. Maybe a little dark under the eyes, but nothing unusual. However, now that she mentions it, I have been sleepy for no obvious reason. A week after her commentary, I'm ready to diagnose my lethargic state: it's the cat.
Snickers is somewhere around 18 years old. He's a Maine Coon cat, so he's big, he's furry, and he's friendly. In the last few years I can add noisy, old, and cranky to his endearing qualities. At 18, he's well beyond the average lifespan of this big breed and things are starting to fail. In the last month, one of his issues are the hind legs, they just don't work as well as they used to. This has led to a sort of peg-leg-hopping thing as he goes up and down the stairs.
It's this hop-hop-hop on the stairs I blame for my fitful sleeps. Cats are quiet but in the middle of the night Snickers sounds like a slightly inebriated teenager trying to sneak up to bed with slow, deliberate steps. He must do this 6 or 7 times a night, rousting me from my slumber each time. The thing is, it's so ridiculous it makes me chuckle each time I hear him clopping. In the end, it's impossible to get too irritated because deep down, I know my sleep won't be interrupted much longer.
Good kitty.
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