You are so warm, but not uncomfortable, just that perfect sort of warmth that causes you to drift in and out of consciousness. On some level, you know it is time to wake up, but you are warm and comfy, and cozy wrapped in your blankets. If only you could achieve this sensation when you first climb into bed, you would never know insomnia.
Your brain reminds you of the reason you woke up. The dream you just had. It was so interesting but so fleeting. You try to grasp onto a tendril of a memory of what it was, but it skitters away. You remember it had something to do with a cat, you try to follow the dream backward to the beginning, much like rewinding a video. Occasionally, you let the dream unwind instead of rewind so that you can be sure you are remembering it in the right order. Finally, you realize you are not going to remember any more. You accept this is what the dream was, and you are sure you are going to remember it when you start moving about your day so you can write it down - and surprisingly your subconscious doesn't laugh at you knowing that will never happen.
You become aware of the rest of your body now. You are still so comfy. You feel a weight pressed up against you. It is not unpleasant. You feel another weight on top of you which is also not unpleasant. You feel quite snug and secure.
You drift in and out of consciousness still. You know you don't have to get up right away so you let yourself drift.
Consciousness comes more frequently now. Your body is fully rested, or as rested as it is going to be. Signals are sent to your nose to itch, to your bladder that it is time to start complaining, to your legs to twitch. You fight waking up because this feels like the perfect moment and you want it to last.
The weight on top of you starts to feel a little bit too heavy. You want to move a bit but you know when you do it is going to start the day. Finally, you can't stop yourself. You scratch your nose. You try to be subtle about it, but the movement sets off a chain reaction that can not be stopped.
In mere seconds, the weight on top of you moves. It shifts from an oblong weight over a couple of feet to four two inch round pressure plates, that miraculously find your bladder and poke it and other sensitive areas that you try so very hard to not react to. They move up your body until you feel a whisker go up your nose and a cold nose press into your cheek. A moment later, you feel wet warm sandpaper licks on your chin.
You feel more movement. More feet walking on top of your body that also seem to find your bladder as they go. How do they do that? Why do they do that? Wouldn't it be easier to walk on the bed and not on a human body? You become aware of a rumbly purr that starts soft but gets louder. Was it the first kitty who is licking your chin, or is it the second? or might it be the one still plastered to your side? or the one by your knee you didn't realize was there until you just tried to move. Is it all four? You try to figure it out but all of a sudden another wet nose pokes your eyelid and before you can really react you feel more sandpaper on your nose. This one will not stop; lick after lick after lick after lick, your nose starts to hurt.
You try to move, you can not. Four, or is that five, cats pin you down. It is Caturday, they pronounce, you are ours today. You struggle. Your bladder is screaming and your nose is now wet, and your leg is cramping for not having moved for the last few hours.
You try to cling to the memory of the perfect moment before you moved. You try to reclaim it. You tell your bladder and your leg and your nose to all shut up and just relax, to enjoy the warmth - which is getting a little too warm thanks to the additional cats - and the comfiness - which is a lot less comfy since your muscles are starting to cramp - and the coziness - which is feeling a bit more like being confined than being cozy. The purrs are becoming deafening.
You open an eye. You see three sets staring back at you.
Welcome to Caturday.
