For the past week, Pandora has been getting out of bed at exactly 6:45 every morning, and I realize there are people who will hear that sentence and wonder why I care. Those people have clearly never lived with Pandora. Pandora does not traditionally wake up at an exact time. Pandora wakes up in stages. First the alarm goes off, then she negotiates with it, then she rolls over and declares that whatever she was supposed to accomplish that morning can probably survive another nine minutes without her. Eventually she gets out of bed, walks toward the kitchen with one eye open, and begins making coffee before she’s fully capable of speech. This has been our morning routine for long enough that I consider it less a habit than a naturally occurring phenomenon. Then, without warning, it changed. Now she gets up at 6:45. Exactly 6:45. Not 6:43. Not 6:48. Every morning I hear the alarm, Pandora gets out of bed, and within a few minutes I can smell coffee coming from the kitchen. At first I thought she had an early meeting. Then she did it the next morning. And the morning after that. By the fourth day, I started checking the clock, not because I was suspicious but because repeated events eventually become data. By the sixth morning, I no longer needed to check. The alarm went off, and before I looked at the clock I thought, 6:45. I looked. It was 6:45. That’s when I started paying attention.
The rest of the routine is equally precise. Pandora gets up, goes to the kitchen, starts the coffee, and feeds Mr Whiskers at approximately 7:30. I say approximately because the feeding time varies by a few minutes, mostly depending on how aggressively Mr Whiskers campaigns for an early breakfast. The coffee does not vary. That happens immediately. This morning I lie in bed listening as Pandora gets up and leaves the bedroom, and a few minutes later I hear the unmistakable sounds of the coffee maker downstairs. I consider going back to sleep, but there is something deeply unsatisfying about recognizing a pattern and then refusing to observe it, so I get up. When I walk into the kitchen, Pandora is standing at the counter in her robe, waiting for the coffee to finish. Mr Whiskers is sitting beside her feet. He looks at me, then at Pandora, then back at me. I’m aware that this is normal cat behavior, particularly when food may eventually become involved, but after the potato incident I’ve become more careful about prematurely eliminating him from consideration.
“You’re up early,” Pandora says. I tell her, “So are you.” She looks at me and says, “Yes.” I add, “Again.” There’s a pause before she says, “Yes, Hal. Again.” I pour myself a glass of water and lean against the counter. Pandora watches me for several seconds before asking why I’m looking at her like that. I tell her I’m not looking at her like anything. I’m merely awake earlier than usual and therefore seeing a part of her daily routine I normally miss. She says, “Uh-huh,” in a tone suggesting she doesn’t believe a word of that, then turns back toward the coffee maker. I decide not to ask about 6:45. That lasts approximately thirty seconds before I ask, “Why 6:45?” Pandora turns around and says, “What?” I repeat the question more specifically: “Why do you get up at 6:45?” She stares at me as though I’ve asked why water is wet and says, “Because that’s when my alarm goes off.” I hadn’t anticipated an answer that technically correct.
“I understand the immediate mechanism,” I tell her. “I’m asking why the alarm is set for 6:45.” Pandora smiles, which isn’t helpful, then turns back toward the coffee maker and says, “Because I like having some time in the morning before everything starts.” It is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Almost suspiciously reasonable, but reasonable nonetheless. I ask when she started doing this. She thinks about it and says maybe a week ago. I already know that. I ask why she started a week ago rather than two weeks ago or next week. She says she doesn’t know; she just decided to. There it is: an unexplained decision. I don’t pursue it because I’ve learned that continuing immediately after someone says “I just decided to” makes them believe you’re interrogating them. Instead, I make toast.
This is where yesterday’s bread incident becomes relevant. Pandora watches me remove the Texas toast from the refrigerator and asks whether I’m going to examine it again. I tell her the bread matter has been resolved. She says she’s glad. I put two slices in the toaster and notice Mr Whiskers has moved from Pandora’s feet to mine, presumably because I now control the most promising food source. Again, perfectly normal behavior. I make a deliberate effort not to assign significance to it. This is progress. While we’re eating breakfast, Pandora checks the clock twice. The first time it’s 7:12. The second time it’s 7:24. At 7:29, Mr Whiskers walks toward his food bowl and sits beside it. I look at the clock. Then I look at him. He looks at Pandora. Pandora checks the clock. At exactly 7:30, she gets up and feeds him. Now I have two clocks.
I ask Pandora whether she realizes Mr Whiskers knows when 7:30 is. She tells me cats have excellent internal schedules, especially where food is concerned. I point out that this means Mr Whiskers is now participating in the routine. Pandora says, “He’s participating in breakfast.” I tell her that’s one interpretation. She gives me the look, so I stop. Later that morning, I’m at work when Karen asks why I look tired. I tell her Pandora has started getting up at 6:45 every morning. Karen waits for the rest of the sentence, but there isn’t one. “So?” she asks. I tell her, “Exactly 6:45.” Karen continues waiting. “Every morning,” I add. She finally says, “Hal, that’s called an alarm.” I explain that I’m aware of alarms. Karen asks whether Pandora has a reason for getting up early. I tell her Pandora says she wants quiet time before the day begins. Karen says that sounds nice. I tell her it does. Karen asks what the problem is.
I don’t have a good answer, and that bothers me because there isn’t actually a problem. Pandora hasn’t been acting strangely. She isn’t hiding anything. She hasn’t been receiving mysterious phone calls or sneaking out of the house or conducting secret meetings with Mrs Jenkins. She gets up at 6:45, makes coffee, enjoys some quiet time, and feeds Mr Whiskers around 7:30. Those are the facts. The problem is the precision. When I get home that evening, Pandora is on the couch reading. Mr Whiskers is asleep beside her. I sit down and decide I’m going to approach this differently. No theories. No assumptions. No investigations. Just a straightforward question. “Why did you pick 6:45?” Pandora lowers her book and reminds me that we already talked about this. I tell her, “You said you wanted time in the morning. That explains why you get up early. It doesn’t explain 6:45.” She studies me for a moment, and I can tell she’s deciding whether answering the question will end this or make it worse.
Finally, Pandora says, “Because 6:30 felt too early and 7:00 felt too late.” I wait, but that’s apparently the entire explanation. “So you split the difference?” I ask. “Basically,” she says. I sit there thinking about this. It is irritatingly logical. Pandora goes back to her book, and the mystery of 6:45 has been resolved through elementary arithmetic. The next morning, her alarm goes off. I open my eyes and, before looking at the clock, I know exactly what time it is. 6:45. Pandora gets out of bed and starts toward the door. I tell her I understand now. She stops and asks what I understand. “Six-thirty was too early. Seven was too late. You split the difference.” She says, “Right.” I ask, “So 6:45 doesn’t actually mean anything?” Pandora says, “No,” and leaves.
I lie there feeling surprisingly satisfied with myself. I identified a pattern, investigated its origin, obtained a direct explanation, and accepted that explanation without unnecessarily expanding the inquiry. This may be the healthiest investigative process I’ve conducted in weeks. Then I hear Pandora in the hallway say, “Come on, Mr Whiskers.” I sit up. There’s a soft thump as Mr Whiskers jumps off the chair, and Pandora says, “You know what time it is.” I look toward the bedroom door as Mr Whiskers follows her downstairs. A few minutes later, the coffee maker starts. I look at the clock again. 6:45.
I’m not saying that means anything. I’m just saying the cat knows too.