W. Bruce Cameron 10/13/11

Oct 13, 20110

My Afternoon Nap

W. Bruce Cameron

I believe that every living creature has a purpose, a reason for being, and that mine is to take a nap.

I am descended from warrior-class nappers. My father, for example, has basically been napping since he retired in 1993. He wakes up for lunch and to complain that he has lost the TV remote, then falls asleep in his chair. (We’re pretty sure if he stood up he’d find the remote because he’s sitting on it.) So I know when a nap is coming: I can sense it the way animals can sense an impending earthquake or teenagers know they’re about to get a text message.

“Tucker, I am going to lie down and take a nap,” I say ambitiously. I’m talking to my dog because he’s the only one in the house with me. If my wife were home, I might feel guilty sleeping in the afternoon when she’s working so hard, which is why people who are really dedicated to napping probably shouldn’t get married.

The dog leaps to his feet, ready to help me face whatever challenges lay ahead. He follows me back to the bedroom. “Good boy, Tucker,” I say. Then I execute what in napping is known as “the mount,” a clean descent onto the bed, head hitting dead center in the pillow. I can feel my long-dead ninja napper ancestors nodding approval at the Olympic-quality mount.

I like to sleep on my side, one arm flung off the edge of the bed because it looks elegant and handsome. I sigh, already slipping into slumber, then open my eyes, frowning. My dog is licking my fingers.

“Tucker! Stop that. No licking daddy’s fingers when he is trying to take a nap,” I say.

Tucker considers this carefully, then licks my fingers.

“OK! Stop! Lie down. Go to sleep. We’re taking a nap.”

I close my eyes. Tucker whines, a long, soulful moan of sadness. I open my eyes. “OK, you want to come up here with me?”

I pat the bed. The dog is never allowed on the bed under normal circumstances, but this is a nap and therefore fits the criteria for national emergency. Tucker gives me a “really?” expression, then leaps nimbly up, curling in a ball against me. I close my eyes. Having a dog lying next to me is comforting and warm.

After about I minute, I feel Tucker jump to his feet, moving around, and then his hot breath is on my cheeks. I open my eyes. He’s standing by my head, staring down at me, panting.

“What is it? Go to sleep!” I tell him. I close my eyes. He licks my face. I open my eyes. “We’re not doing face licking at this time!” I say sternly. “Lie down! Nap!”

He barks.

“OK, if you will just lie down, I’ll buy you a chicken,” I promise. He is unmoved — I’ve used this on him before and never delivered. He barks again, bowing and wagging his tail as if he has no idea what I mean by “nap.”

That’s it. “I’m sorry, but I have no choice but to eject you from the game,” I say. He appears shocked, but he shouldn’t be — we’ve discussed this, and he knows the policy. I lead him out to the hall and shut the bedroom door. Now, a nap.

Tucker sniffs loudly under the door as if trying to inhale me through the crack. Then he cries, scratches the door and barks.

With a sigh, I get out of bed and open the door, and he jumps on me and cries, greeting me as if I’ve just returned from the war.

I decide that instead of napping, I’ll take my dog for a walk.

My ancestors would be very disappointed in me.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his website at http://www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at http://www.creators.com.