Sleep is vastly overrated. Who needs eight hours of it? President Kennedy, it is said, managed to govern the country on four hours of sleep per night.
I don’t think I’m quite ready to govern the country yet.
I had the flu last week. It wasn’t fun. I was very brave.
Ivy Scarlett, the German Shepherd/Husky mix Bing and I adopted ten years ago, sleeps fine. What does she know that I don’t? I love the name Scarlett. I think I was meant to be Scarlett, but somehow my parents didn’t get the message. Molly is okay. I have known quite a few dogs over the years named Molly, so it can’t be all bad.
My childhood friend, Marilyn, had a cat named EmmaJean. I’ve never known a person named EmmaJean, but the cat was nice. Even when we dressed her up in baby clothes and wheeled her around the neighborhood in my doll buggy. She didn’t like that much.
The three stray kittens-now-full-grown-cats that I feed daily (and nightly) still run away when I appear with their food. It’s a good thing my feelings aren’t easily hurt. Would it kill them to stick around long enough to say “Thank you?” Their names, as faithful readers should remember, are Christopher Robin, Hansel and Gretel. Their mother is Saint Francis, the first stray who adopted me. Their father is Lord Pearl, nee Lady Pearl, until he became paternal.
Shakespeare wrote about sleep in Macbeth. Something about it knitting up the cares of something. I used to knit. I was especially proud of a sweater I knit for then-boyfriend, Bing. It was handsome, even though the sleeves hung down to his knees. Properly knit sleeves are vastly overrated.
And so end my three a.m. musings.
I think it’s sort of rude of you all to heave such an audible sigh of relief. Good thing my feelings aren’t easily hurt.