A couple years ago I got a kitten named Callie. I lived in a studio apartment at this point. Many mornings at the reasonable hour of 3am, Callie would experience what I like to call a compulsive disorder urging her to commit ownercide.
She would be under the futon, and break into a run, making a right-turn at the wall and running under the couch against the sliding-glass door. She would follow the couch into the kitchen, where she would make another right hand turn. Passing through the kitchen, she’d made another right hand turn at the bathroom, and run along one of those long “open box” bookshelves that’s all the rage at IKEA. She’d sprint across open space from the end of that bookshelf to my computer desk, making her final right hand turn.
The way my apartment was set up, my computer desk sat against another one of those “open box” bookshelves. On the other side of that bookshelf was my futon.
Anyway, Callie would jump onto the desk, then onto the bookshelf. There she would wait for a scant few seconds, extending all claws, then, like a World War II paratrooper jumping into German held France, she would leap, landing on or around my chest or stomach, which would result in my leaping up screaming “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?” by which point, of course, she would already be making a right hand turn at the kitchen for her second attack run.
Usually by the second or third jump I would be awake enough to catch her as she tried to kill me. That usually freaked her out and she’d spend the rest of the night curled up at the other end of the futon, keeping my feet warm. On occasion, she’d scratch at them when they moved, and then I’d rarther unceremoniously push her off the bed with those smelly cheese-crusted toes.