Many will be upset hearing this, but when Oliver, my orange tabby, was alive my cats lived in my basement. Strictly. Oliver shed at least two other cats worth of fur a day, so my parents (whom I still live with) told me they had to be confined to the basement. With Oliver gone, Shelby is now free to run about the house. She doesn’t though. She pretty much just stays in my room until she fancies a good chew on the potted dwarf palm my mother inherited from my grandmother after she passed away about 8 years ago. She will then proceed back into my bedroom to throw up…on my down comforter.

Totally worth it though. It’s amazingly therapeutic to have a ball of fluff purring against you while you sleep…even if it’s laying on your butt and it’s 4am.

Waking up this morning at 7 am was a little less dreadful ( though Shelby doesn’t sleep much, so every few hours she would wake me up demanding to be pet properly) with a warm and soft living creature next to me. I only wish I could have let Oliver spend a few nights with me before his passing, and I continue to feel conflicted about having him spend much of his life in the basement . Then again, I had him kennel trained, and his kennel was his safe place. Thus…the conflict continues.

What I suppose I’m getting at is how wonderful it feels to wake up next to another living being. To have that energy there. To have that comfort. To feel that life existing in your presence. It’s really nice, and I’m sad that I had missed out on it for so long.

I wonder how different it must feel for that living being to be human? I have never had a sexual relationship, nor have I really spent much time at sleepovers in my childhood, so experiencing the sleep of another person is something foreign to me. I wonder if it is just as beautiful? Or is it more?

Time will have to tell.

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