The Cat at Two Thirty in the Morning Running for No Reason

It’s 2:30 a.m. and I hear the noise of something little and adamant jumping off the back of the couch. Then I hear a skitter on the hardwood. Then, from the kitchen, a single ceramic bowl spinning and stopping. And then there is silence.

My cat is having a fiesta. Living her best life while I sit here absolutely sleep deprived.

She doesn’t take any time to build up to a massive outbreak of energy. One minute she’s sitting in the dining chair and the next she’s off. This is the equivalent of our mom yelling, “We have to go!” and at that moment she’s got the energy of a puppy and the focus of a hunting bird. She’s gone in seconds. Chaotically lunging through all the rooms at impossible speed, and those little paws are going so fast that they’re sliding all over the floors as if she’s in a cartoon.

I used to think this was a sign of real distress. After that I thought maybe it was some irrational animal sickness that compelled her to think she was being chased by a wolf. I never got a single second to think and calmly prepare for that. Although in her quest to not be interrupted by me, she ended up getting interrupted. Eventually I figured out how to play the game and now I stay in bed and listen to the chaos ensue.

I can’t help but smile at the pure joy in her midnight zoomies, even if it seems totally unnecessary. There’s nothing to be scared of, no prey to chase, no rival cat to be antagonized. She’s simply expressing that little spark of life that has built up while she was curled up like a blanket Over the chair. She just needs to do something. It’s a wild, primal energy. The apartment belongs to her. She needs to be fast. She needs to run.

She needs to remember what she can do.

I almost feel guilty taking delight in this but there is something absurdly humorous about a once dignified cat removing a stray piece of fur from her coat sterilizing it. Only to immediately turn around, run up the back of the couch and leap over the arm, run down the front, and back out again to do it again.

She leaps onto the coffee table, spins around, and off she goes again.

I can’t say that translating an animals signals and needs to understand them is easy, but they sometimes feel so effortless. And while we don’t do it perfectly, we learn their signals and recognize the signs.

Most of the time, a translation isn’t even necessary. There is no asking, no fear, no hunger, no boredom. She’s simply existing, aware of her body and her surroundings at 2:30 a.m. The only reasonable choice is to let it happen.

Like her outbursts of energy, it comes to a sudden stop. In a sprint, she halts and plops down in the living room. After licking her shoulder a couple times, she gets up and strolls back to the chair, acting as if nothing transpired.

The apartment is peaceful when I close my eyes.

Even though I will be tired in the morning, I can’t help but smile. I was fortunate enough to be present for something unlike any other. A mystery that is plain and simple, yet remains unsolvable. A cat, in motion.