I have arrived

Last night, struggling with rare cases of both nausea and reflux, I decided to sleep at least the first portion of the night sitting up in a chair. While not terribly cozy or comfortable, I do think it was just what the doctor ordered, because when I awoke shortly before 4:00 am, I was fine. One of our feline night nurses had curled up on a nearby sofa, but it was too dark for me to discern her identity. Our other kitten was upstairs, I discovered, as I went up to prepare for bed. Poised in a doorway like a blue shadowy sentry, Ivy was watching for the kind of tiny nighttime visitor old houses like ours sometimes have.

I hadn't been in bed for more than a moment, though, when the sound of purring filled our room. Ivy had deserted her post and was sitting at the foot of our bed, where she usually sleeps, just staring at me. After purring there for a good while, the usually more aloof Ivy even curled up next to my shoulder for some kneading and a purry snuggle.

I was immediately taken back to my childhood where our family dogs were always happiest with my mother. I distinctly remember asking her about it once, and Mom casually said, "Well, you and your sister are more than welcome to feed her, change her water, clean up after her, or talk and play with her more than you do. If you do that long enough, you'll be her favorite. But somebody needs to, and I do."

Back then, even a long time (by a child's standard) of loving care couldn't sway our dog's special affection for my mother. But last night as Zelda joined the party to curl at her usual spot near my feet, and as Ian awoke and scooped Ivy from her loud but snuggly spot at our shoulders, I smiled and thought, "I have arrived."