I am thinking that if Santa Claus needs any new or additional reindeer, he should consider the young’un cat. As can be seen in the photo below, the young’un cat’s eyes are extremely googly; they put out plenty of light, and are not bound by space or time. Paired with Rudolph, there at the head of the team pulling the sleigh, the young’un cat would guarantee that Santa would never get lost, no matter how much fog or liquor he might encounter.
Further, I believe that employment would be good for the young’un cat. For he needs something to absorb his energies. Other than this sleep-deprivation experiment he has embarked upon. With myself as the subject. No matter when I try to sleep, he eventually turns against it. And then works diligently, until it cannot be. He has decided, for example, that whatever portions of my body are covered with hair, he may assault, as I sleep, with his claws. My scalp is now so routinely excavated that I am thinking of hiring him out as a miner.
Because his excavating is always accompanied by operatic wails, I think I may hire him out as a musical miner. I have not heard miners emit sounds with this volume and intensity since those Welshmen in How Green Was My Valley.
I have also begun referring to the young’un cat as The Dream Crusher. This is because of late I have been gifted with extraordinary dreams; while there is a method I use to pull dreams into the waking state, most often these days that process is derailed, when the young’un cat decrees that my skull should be employed as his dartboard, or elects to eagerly ride his tricycle across my forehead.
I tried minutely tracking his schedule, and then sneaking sleep into those windows when he is usually not around, busy as he is running the world outdoors. Even though those windows are not exactly convenient for me. Situated as they are, say, between 1 and 5 in the afternoon. Still, I was trying to be accommodating. But no such luck. Recently I had been asleep but an hour, there in the ridiculous mid-afternoon, when he arrived from outside to screech into the Carmen while hurling himself against the sliding-glass door.
It has been my experience that young people of all species are against sleep. When my daughter, today a well-known award-winning deviant, was wee, she was violently opposed to me sleeping. I favored naps; she favored the abolition of naps. I finally figured out that, there on her worldtrack, when I closed my eyes, she disappeared. And this was unsettling for her. As it would be for anybody.
Her thinking here—about my closing my eyes resulting in her disappearance—was the same as when a child puts her hands over her own eyes: what this accomplishes, of course, is that one can no longer see the child.
Finally my daughter proposed a compromise: “You can sleep,” she said, “with your eyes opened.”
I tried this, but it didn’t work out. My friend Zack, on the other hand, was an expert at that sort of thing. He had to be. Because he suffered from a peculiar problem with his eyelids: they were delivered by the manufacturer in a size too short to completely cover his eyes. So there was always light, and other annoyments of the world, leaking in. As a result of this condition, he preferred to sleep in rooms that had been delivered unto complete and total blackness. He devoted much time and energy to scouring his sleeping quarters of any and all sources of light. Some people thought this was because he was a drug person, which he was, but the truth was more profound and disturbing. He just couldn’t get the light out of his head.