The Woman That Turned Into A Cave, and Other Consequences of Sleep Deprivation

Who disturbs my slumber?

I sat upright in bed, eyes shifting from side to side not unlike an angry enchanted cave from a movie any child growing up in the 90’s would know. My cave eyes were swollen, red, and exhausted. Silence filled the house for a moment to allow some doubt as to whether there actually was a disturber of slumber, until the sound returned.

It was a chicken screaming in the only horrible way a chicken knows—something like a prolonged series of high pitched squawks that sound undeniably like terror. It slammed into the screen on the other side of the window, seeming to rake across is as it zoomed by, then silence again.

It is all a dream, I assured myself. It was barely dawn and the chickens were still snug as bugs locked up in their coop. No way was that a chicken—no way. This is what happens when you survive on four hours of sleep for a prolonged period.

I collapsed back into the bed. Sweet, soft, warm covers snuggled me back like the most loving of mothers—the bedding variety of a mother. Sweet, soft, warm sleep beckoned me to return to her, and I was instantly slipping…

Until the dogs started. Maniacal barks and growls coming from the living room seemed to jerk my eyelid-curtains wide open again.

Who disturbs my slumber?! My inner cave rumbled as I focused my swollen, bloodshot eyes on the doorway. I charged into the room like an angry cave would charge if it had appendages. I flung the French doors open, and the knob went clattering into the wall, again. The dogs charged out like a pack of wolves across the yard toward the chicken coop, where I caught a glimpse of a streak of color an instant before it disappeared into the woods.

Bobcat disturbs my slumber, I rumbled. A person never really sees a bobcat, they simply know it was a bobcat by the mysterious blur seen while in the process of it disappearing. And the pile of white feathers on the ground.

I looked in the direction of the coop, then I looked down at my underwear. Should I get clothes, or not get clothes? Caves don’t wear pants.

With that decided, I walked through the rest of yard to inspect the chicken coop. The dew was mingling with the dirt so that my feet were getting smeared all over, but that seemed quite appropriate for a cave with legs. The coop was still in its iron-clad, impenetrable state of the night before. Not having seen the bobcat in possession of any hand tools before becoming a blur of color as it disappeared, I figured the coop would be secure.

This can only mean one thing: I can no longer count. Evidently I had miscounted the chickens when putting them up the night before, locking out one straggler. Caves are not exactly known for their arithmetic skills. I thought maybe I’d ask the six-year-old math whiz of a boy to teach me to count properly later.

Poor whitey. I walked past the pile of leghorn feathers, which could have belonged to either of two leghorns that were entirely indistinguishable, and therefore both shared the very accurate name of “Whitey.”

Big Dog was at my bedroom window screen, sniffing voraciously, like the scent of cat was almost as fabulous as the scent of cat poop. A strange noise came from nearby. For an instant I felt goosebumps rise on the backs of my arms. Is the creature still here?

A clearly pronounced cluck with an attitude came from above my head. There stood Whitey at the peak of the roof with a look about her that said: I just survived a bobcat attack and it is only seven o’clock. What have you done today?

“Sleep—that’s what I’ve done, and it’s what I should be doing now,” I said to her darkly. “That is what people that stay up into the wee hours of night do first thing in the morning! This is your own fault—shame on you for not going to bed on time.” I immediately realized the hypocrisy of the statement. “Come down here you silly thing,” I said more mildly as I walked toward the coop and the hungry bird flew down after me. “Thank goodness you can fly.”

I went back inside. The bed called to me, beckoning with its soft blankets and perfectly shaped pillows. I curled back inside it like a cave all covered over with foliage, hidden from view. Then the sound of little feet pattered into the room.

Who disturbs my slumber? I rumbled from beneath the covers.

“Mama, I don’t feel good,” the tot said in her cute little tot voice. The six-year-old-math-whizz boy arrived, moaning “I’m hungry,” and I didn’t have the energy to ask him to teach me to count. Big Dog and Old Man Dog came charging in too, tongues hanging far out of mouths and enthusiasm dripping off as they came to congratulate me on a fun morning chase.

Everyone disturbs my slumber. It is a conspiracy. I lifted the covers up over my head as I shimmied into the middle of the mattress. “Let’s all take a rest in the cave,” I said. It was the only way to get any sleep.

Quick, someone had better invite that bobcat too.