It has been difficult arising from bed in the morning. October has been generous with us this year and so I have kept the windows open at night to allow the cool air to wash through the apartment, pinkening my cheeks while I sleep. But the mornings are dark and crisp and bed is the only place I want to be, Pip curled into my chest, one paw resting against my throat as though guarding my pulse while I dream. Pulling myself from beneath the comforter is an almost painful movement but once I'm up the cats scurry around me, singing to me, songs of breakfast and scritches on the chin. Duncan is the last to pull himself from sleep and does so only reluctantly, enraptured by dreams of coy bunnies and darting brown birds always just out of reach. He relishes my weekends because it means long cuddles and belly rubs, lazy walks off-leash in the park before the hoards arrive, afternoons spent playing with his squeaky ball and snacks slipped to him while he lounges at my feet. Mondays are a difficult transition for him and it is all he can do to pull himself from the soft pillows and blankets he sleeps on.
This morning he seemed particularly reluctant and decided the best course of action was to prolong the weekend in the only way he knew how: by curling up on the end of the couch on top of my bag, hiding it as best he could. Perhaps he thought that if I could not locate the symbol of his Mondays mornings that we could repeat Sunday, venturing out among the leaves for more of our precious quiet time together, just the low sun and the two of us. Oh, if only it were that easy.
He doesn't know how difficult it is for me to leave him as well. One more long morning with Roo would be a precious gift, indeed.