Someone once asked me if Cat ever gets bored, and I had to admit that I hadn’t the slightest clue—I’d never noticed. Since then, I’ve started paying more attention to Cat’s daily routine, only to find that he spends virtually all his time asleep.

Many times, I’ve seen Cat walk from one end of the living room to the other, a journey of maybe a dozen yards. Even so, he stops several times along the way to rest, eyelids drooping the entire while, looking unbearably tired. If I don’t call his name, he might fall asleep right there and then.

I don’t know why cats are so drowsy. I’ve read that the average feline spends seven-tenths of its life asleep, which frankly I envy. As far as I’m concerned, being able to sleep as much as you want is pure heaven! I suffer from insomnia and spend many nights flipping over in bed like a pork bun on a griddle. Cats, though, can fall asleep in a single second. If Cat could donate some of his slumber to me, so he could sleep a little less and I a little more, wouldn’t that be just right?

While Cat dozes, I like poking him with a finger so he cracks open one eye, realizes it’s only me, contentedly shuts it again, and rolls over to fall back asleep. If I poke him again, he responds in exactly the same manner, completely disregarding me. So I go poke, poke, poke, not letting up until he finally wakes up for real, at which point he has no choice but to stand, arch his back into a stretch, then slowly stroll away, still ignoring my existence.

In order to evade my teasing. Cat keeps finding new sleeping spots. It takes me a while to find each one. The more he hides himself, the more I want to uncover him. We’re playing a game of cat-and-seek.

Cat conceals himself in tiny spaces, curled into a ball, eyes shut, having a brief snooze or a proper sleep. He never lets out a single sound, the better to stay hidden. Drawers, wardrobes, under the bed, behind a door—all places he might be. Once Cat is out of sight, he won’t show himself until he gets hungry or hears a disturbance. He can stay hidden an entire day with no issue. Then again, as long as I’m home, how could he hope to stay hidden so long? I certainly wouldn’t be able to let him out of my sight for that many hours. After a short while, I’d go in search of him. If I don’t see him right away, I start to get anxious, unable to settle, and begin buzzing around the house like a headless fly, seeking Cat everywhere.

In the end, I’m the one who has nothing better to do, not Cat.

When I can’t find Cat, I long for his presence all the more eagerly. The worst thing is when I desperately need some catness, and he’s nowhere to be found. Each new hiding place gets abandoned as soon as a human discovers it, and he’ll move on to the next one.

There are times when Cat hides himself too well—so not only can I not find him but he’s lost to himself too. There have been a few times when Cat has only emerged very late at night, so hungry that the light has gone out of his eyes. When he sees his food, he dashes over and begins wolfing it down. On these occasions, I feel he must have gotten lost in his new hiding place and only found his way back with a lot of effort.

I once helped Cat search for himself but only exhausted myself to no avail. Finally, I slumped on the couch, and as my eyes swept over the TV stand, I happened to see a bushy tail poking out from beneath the cabinet, twitching this way and that. Reflexively, I sprang off the sofa, flinging myself to the floor so I could grab that tail. Cat tried to spring in the opposite direction, and our energies came into direct collision. With Cat and I pulling against each other with all our might, we grappled for a while before Cat turned around, realized it was me, and immediately stopped trying to escape. Finally relaxing, he returned to his previous softness.

Cat and I are always delighted once he has been found.