Either Brody loves the taste or smell of the floss I use, or my fingers ooze some sort of hormonal delight when my period is about to start and he can't get enough of it, licking and nibbling on my index fingers.
Eight hours is just too long for Brody not to be the center of my attention. Really, it's more like six. At that point, he'll start meowing in my face and pawing at me if I don't respond. He won't stop until I cuddle with him, which when I'm still sleep-logged, is not quite enough-- so when I finally actually wake up, he'll meow and meow and meow and lead me to the carpet where he circles and plops and looks up at me with his bedroom eyes. Or maybe living room eyes. If I don't sit on the carpet and devote a few minutes to petting and scratching him, he'll repeat the whole process. And in those few moments, our life is perfect. Nothing but me and him, cuddling and purring and loving.
And I don't even mind when he wakes me up with the need to be touched, because I understand it. Both of our love languages are touch. Sometimes, he'll even stretch out a little paw and lay it gently on some part of me, just to touch me or make sure that I'm there. And he'll spoon with me, putting his little head on my shoulder or in the crook of my elbow.
And I'll kiss his soft fur and smell his cat smell and I'll fall asleep.
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