Saturday, October 24, 2009

Deterioration of the Fight or Flight Response

Human beings need a lot of things to feel alive. Family . . . Love . . . Sex. But we only need one thing . . . To actually be alive. We need a beating heart.  When our heart is threatened . . .We respond in one of two ways. We either run or . . .We attack.  There's a scientific term for this: Fight . . . Or flight.  It's instinct . . . We can't control it.  Or can we? ~ Grey’s Anatomy

I don't have any children.
I have a cat...a very demanding, very vocal cat.
Now, before you start wailing, "It's not the saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaame as having kids", do me a favor and STFU.
Yes, I'm quite aware that a cat is nothing like having a child of my own. Case in point: I'm quite sure that at three years of age most kids will not, once an hour every night, crawl onto your chest and yowl like a deranged banshee right into your peacefully sleeping face, jarring you out of a lovely dream of Ewan McGregor and into a state of panicked terror. If they do...maybe you need to rethink your approach to parenting...just a suggestion.

I am completely at my wits end with him.

Aslan is a three-year-old, orange and white, Maine Coon mix. I love him with every ounce of my small, black heart...but every night I seriously entertain the thought of duct taping this little mouth shut.

He's perfectly fine, affectionate, and sweet until it's time for me to turn the lights out and go to sleep...and then he transforms into an unholy, shrieking, furball of terror hell bent on driving me over the cliffs of insanity. It's a high pitched, prolonged wail reminiscent of metal fingernails raked slowly down the devil’s chalkboard. Now envision drifting peacefully into the loving embrace of sleep, dreams already dancing behind weary eyes…and then imagine it blasted to all hell as you are jerked awake, heart pounding, your flight or flight response kicked into high gear, childhood terrors of things that go ‘bump’ in the night racing through your befuddled mind…NOW imagine that happening at least once an hour, every hour…every night.

Is there ANY wonder I’m a complete, raving lunatic?

Oh, and the kicker is…as soon as the alarm clock goes off, and I have to get up…he curls up into a cute little orange ball at the end of my bed and passes out. Not a care in the world.

Little bastard.


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