As she sat in her chair late at night half-listening to a podcast play and the wind outside stirring up the trees, her cat was nestled on the armrest beside her. She tried to pull her arm out from her side where it was between her and her cat, and arched it over the fuzzy creature, making more room. But if she put it up and over, hugging him to her she worried that her arm was too heavy to fall asleep with her limb resting that way.
Some half compromise was reached, and she nestled into the chair to fall asleep for a short period, when she should have gone off to bed. Ruining her appetite for a good night’s sleep in all likelihood, but feeling too comfortable and lazy just then to move away. With the cat purring contentedly, petting its head, the thought occurred to her, and she asked herself: Has there ever been a creature who evolved an adaptation specifically for nestling against a loved one?
Have species evolved to drop limbs on one side, perhaps strengthening them on the other, so that they could more perfectly hold each other? She smiled. She remembered a lesson at a youth class at the local zoo she had taken that her Mom had signed her up for. There are some creatures, during the night or whenever they are likely to be prey, who line up on a perch three or more, and the ones on the outside maintain more wakefulness than the ones buffeted by them for protection in the middle.
The ones in the middle can achieve a deeper sleep. And they cycle through. Like how geese when they fly south take turns being the foremost duck in the V-formation, who cuts the headwind most directly, taking the hardest shock and making all the ducks behind have a little more aerodynamic ease as they line up behind.
She looked at her cat and rubbed his head, he barely stirred.
She thought “He’ll watch out for predators” —closing her eyes again and pushing her head back into the recliner’s cushion— “While I rest under his protection.”
The Haunted Typewriter 