Three A.M., W/Carlos 3/27/10

I can't sleep through the night anymore. I never have been a great sleeper, I must admit. Too many night terrors and anxieties. Too much sleep walking, and sensitivity to house sounds. But, there was one thing that could be said for me: I could hold more water than a water buffalo. I never got up at 3a.m. just to take a whizz. I might flail about until I knocked trophies off nightstands, and barstools onto the bridge of my nose, but I never made a conscious trip to the commode in order to assume the yoga position known as "The Pissing Crane."

The loss of capacity is doubtless age-related, as is my increased affection for the columns of Charles Guswelle. He is a 130 year-old KC Star columnist who writes often about cats and Russia, and in a rather stodgy style. I used to blow past his columns as quickly as I did the comic strip Mark Trail, but lately I have found my quartagenarian eyes straying to these two stalwarts. (Digression: I saw Mark stripped to the waist in a strip a few years back, and though his pecs were expectedly impressive, he had no nipples. Perhaps he has evolved faster than the rest of us fellows.) Since I want to be the next great, ancient cat columnist in KC, let me tell you about Carlos and I in the pissoir at 3a.m.

Carlos, our Cat Whom Hell Could Not Handle, is always up at that time, and he is always happy to see me. "Happy" is a wayy understatement. Obama was happy to get healthcare reform passed. Northern Iowa was happy to beat Kansas. Carlos is happy to the thirtieth power when I go into the bathroom er-lie in the mornin'. When I sit down-for two reasons: accuracy in the dark, and his tendency to give me love bites on the backs of my legs, which consequently decrease my accuracy in the dark-he throws himself down at my feet. He lolls. He purrs. So loudly, in fact that it registers on the Richter Scale. It makes me nervous, this joyous feline vibration. When I'm nervous, I can't pee. (Digression: I say "pee" more since I've gotten old, which I also said a lot when I was three. It probably means I'm going to start peeing more in my pants, necessitating a return to diaper usage. I doubt that Mark Trail will ever have any trouble with bladder control, which is fortunate, since he doesn't have a penis.) And when I can't pee, I spend way too much time on the crapper, which means I'm not in the bed sleeping.

So, the cat and my minuscule bladder keep me from getting the required amount of sleep. And insufficiency of sleep in my line of work, the proper fitting of running shoes, can have grave consequences. I once put a five-foot tall high-school sophomore girl into a pair of men's size 16 EEEEs. I just left the paper in. That afternoon at track practice, she tripped thirty times in one mile. Formerly a beautiful girl, she now has a nose like Mike Tyson. (Digression: More running shoes are misfit by the sleepy, than by the drunk, or those who text, and Mark Trail runs in his Ranger boots, but doesn't get blisters, because he doesn't have skin.)

In order to solve the problem, I am trying to get Carlos on the same nocturnal schedule as the rest of us. So far, a thousand dollars of quasi-legal Columbian cat tranquilizers have shown some promise, but I may have to dial back the dosage. He was out for a week, and I thought/hoped he might be dead. I've had pangs of conscience over my hopefulness ever since, which have cost me several nights' sleep. (Closing digression: Mark Trail loves his animal companion, the stout Saint Bernard, Andy, more than anything other than his own sideburns. Wishing him dead is unthinkable, even when The Big Fellow needs an expensive operation to fix his hip dysplasia.)

Thanks for reading.