My cat, Jeannie, snores. She’s an old girl now and has arthritis. I think when I’m restless at night, it disturbs her so she doesn’t sleep with me very often anymore.

She likes to sleep on her cushion in front of the heat duct in the dining room. My other cat, Chloe, seems to understand that it’s not her spot and leaves Jeannie alone.

I hear Jeannie snore while I’m reading in bed or trying to get to sleep. (That’s one thing about getting older—sleep eludes me many nights.) Jeannie’s snoring sounds so human. In fact, she sounds a lot like my late mother. My mother and I had to share a bedroom when I was growing up. My dad died when I was quite young so Mom and I shared twin beds that were side by side in the larger of the two upstairs bedrooms. And she snored like a son of a gun.

Her snoring woke me at night, and there I would be, unable to get back to sleep. For a teenager who loved to sleep, this was vexing. Finally I devised a way to get her to stop—for a while, at least. I would slip my leg out of the covers and reach it across and give my mother’s bed a good kick. She would snort a few times and then settle back down and stop snoring for a while. This was very effective. I took great pleasure in making her stop snoring. I might do this three or four times until I would finally fall back asleep.

I never admitted to her that I had done this. She had a good, dry sense of humor, but she would not have found it amusing.

I can’t do that with Jeannie, of course. I can’t kick her bed to get her to stop snoring. In truth, I chuckle when I hear it night after night. It always reminds me of Mom. I admit I have wondered at times if she’s trying to get even with me.

Cris Roll