No living creature sleeps better than a cat. Out of my cats, Mr. Sunshine seems to sink deepest into dreamland, rolling on his back and simply collapsing into whatever heap of plushy black fur his limbs go to, toes curled, mouth open, all afternoon. I often wonder what sweet dreams his feline imagination composes for his unconscious enjoyment; he is motionless, not running or nursing or doing anything in his sleep, just slowly breathing. I imagine him imagining himself sleeping in some quiet field in the sunshine with a light breeze and birds singing.
He usually does this on top of the file cabinets in front of the window where I can turn to watch him in repose, a little tingle of jealousy in my belly; but I like what I do, I enjoy spending my days in pursuit of truth and beauty and, I’ll admit, enough almighty dollars to pay the bills, I really wouldn’t want to sleep my life away. No, I wouldn’t, and I’m happy Mr. Sunshine is here, sleeping his life away on my filing cabinets instead of some less desirable alternative.