There are two alarm clocks in our bedroom.
One is made by Apple.
The other wears a tuxedo.
Only one of them has ever been trusted to get me out of bed.
Oscar doesn’t believe in alarms. He believes in certainty. Somewhere deep inside that furry little body is a Swiss watch that has never once failed him. Every morning, long before the sun has properly committed to rising, he decides that breakfast has become a matter of national importance and that I, as Head of Food Services, should already be on duty.
The first indication that my shift is about to begin is the familiar dip in the mattress as he lands with all the grace of a gymnast. There isn’t a sound beyond the soft padding of paws across the duvet. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d swear he was trying not to wake me.
He’s not.
He’s simply taking attendance.
He makes one slow circuit of the bed, stepping over Ian as though he were an inconvenient piece of furniture before arriving beside my pillow. I can almost hear him thinking.
“Still asleep.”
He waits.
Patience, after all, is part of the performance.
Then comes the paw.
Not a swipe. Not a scratch. Just a single white paw placed delicately against my shoulder with the gentleness of someone checking whether another person is still breathing.
Nothing.
He tries again.
I stubbornly remain asleep, or at least perform a fairly convincing impression of it.
Oscar has been running this operation for nearly five years. He’s not fooled.
He leans closer.
I can feel the warmth of his whiskers before I hear the first tiny purr beginning somewhere deep in his chest. It grows steadily louder until it sounds less like a cat and more like a small diesel engine idling beside my ear.
Against my better judgement, I open one eye.
It’s over.
Eye contact is Oscar’s version of signing a legally binding contract.
His face lights up with quiet satisfaction, as though to say, “Excellent. Now that we’ve established you’re conscious, shall we discuss breakfast?”
I squeeze my eyes shut again.
Perhaps if I don’t move…
Perhaps he’ll think I imagined him.
Perhaps—
A soft, deliberate tap lands squarely on the end of my nose.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to remind me that denial isn’t a strategy.
I ignore him.
The second tap is slightly more persuasive.
The third carries the unmistakable confidence of someone who knows he’s already won.
Eventually I give in, because resistance only prolongs the inevitable. As soon as my feet touch the floor, Oscar spins around with his tail held triumphantly in the air and trots towards the kitchen without so much as a backward glance.
There is no celebration.
No gratitude.
No acknowledgement whatsoever that another successful negotiation has taken place.
He simply assumes the meeting has concluded in his favour.
Again.
As I shuffle after him, wondering why I ever believed I was the one in charge of this household, I catch him glancing over his shoulder just long enough to ensure that his employee is following.
He doesn’t own a watch.
He doesn’t need one.
He owns me.
And every morning at precisely five-thirty-two, he reminds me of that fact.