the cat of a whisker tickled my face and bubbled me out of a dream

Here she is in front, pawing at my morning breath. Her nose flickers once, she seconds no thought to the visible stench. Where was I just? Too groggy to tell. My tired eyes are blinking forth and back between an eager face-full of catty stomach screams and fading scenes from minute-old REM-cycle sleep. I'm rusty-eyed and crusted, primed to rest my sorry machine. I feel her shifting densely over the sheets. I sweep her sideways, and all her fur, as dust bins would and brooms would too the dust from dirty floors. Go lap from the toilet or contract disease! Do what you do whilst I'm neck deep in Zs. Impossible. She scratch my sheets, and noises of her struggle hammer on my ears. She again appears.

Back for more, are you? Oh what's the use. You're no worse than the first knife of daylight to my eyes. Get off my face already. Let's eat breakfast together.