This morning, sometime around 1:30 a.m., I awoke to the peculiar sounds of a yowling tom cat. Blearily I pushed my pillow aside and tried to discern whether or not I was dreaming or if, indeed, somewhere just outside my bedroom window, a cat was forlornly meowing.

In that ever-happy land between awake and asleep, depending upon how you emerge into it, what’s really happening takes on meanings that later make no sense. Having been awakened in displeasure, I tried to clear my head and put the situation in context.

I staggered over to the open window. “Princess?”

Princess is the name of a neighbor’s cat. I made the assumption that that was the animal making the noise, though Princess was likely somewhere safe inside.

“Meooowlllrr.”

“Shaddup!”

I went back to bed.

Of course not, if you’re wondering if the noise stopped.

I tried to ignore it, to no avail. So, I muttered under my breath and tripped over a pile of clothes as I made my way back across the room to shut all the windows and block out the sound. I could hear the cat yowling as it walked around the corner of the building. My hopes that it went away were dashed as I heard it come back around, the noise almost stereophonic as the animal apparently was hoping to relive the final parade around Jericho before bringing it down.

I tossed. I turned. I adjust pillows. I told myself that I didn’t really hear it and that it didn’t really bother me.

The problem with trying to sleep when you are suddenly overly aware of a noise is that, no matter if the noise bothers anyone else or not, or if it would bother you any other night, it suddenly takes on the urgency of being the only obstacle between you and much-needed sleep.

At last I could take it no longer. I had tried to ignore it, and it was now nearly 2 a.m. The cat was still out there, either telling an epic story or with the worst personal gas problem ever. No doubt sent by the devil, the beast had worn me down. I reached into my nightstand and pulled out my heavy black Maglite.

Whenever I hold the Maglite, I feel like hitting things.

I threw on a pair of sweatpants, wearing the tank top I was sleeping in, and scrounged around in the dark for flip flops. I fumbled with the door locks. Standing on my front steps in the cool night air, dressed as I was, I imagined for a moment that I appeared as a disheveled character dreamed up by Tennessee Williams.

Tripping down the steps, I turned the flashlight on and started waving it about, trying not to look like Neighborhood Watch High Alert material. I heard the cat go silent. Around to the back I went, keeping the light out of the windows of my basement neighbor who was, probably, laughing his head off and watching me in the dark.

A streak of white and gray zipped away from the house and disappeared into the lilac bush.

“And don’t come back!” I whispered loudly. For once, the entire neighborhood was silent during the night, and this cat decided to come and share his pain.

I went back inside, locking the doors, changing my clothes, putting away the flashlight, and settling back into bed. The silence was enticing. I began the annoying procedure of arranging the pillows in whatever manner the moment called for to get me back into dreamland, pulling the blankets up around me and slowly drifting back into sleep.

It was 2:15 a.m.

And then I heard the meowing begin again.