Sigh.
I didn’t want to write this. I was napping, beautifully, expertly, with my tail draped just so over my nose, when my hooman started flailing around the apartment muttering something about being “too tired to function.” Again.
I opened one eye. I judged. I closed it.
But then it happened again. And again. And eventually I realized that if I didn’t intervene, these sleep-deprived, coffee-addicted creatures were going to blunder through the rest of their short, chaotic lives never once experiencing the transcendent glory of a truly excellent nap.
Fine. You’re welcome. Don’t make it weird.
First, The “Science” (Since Hoomans Need a Study to Justify Everything)
Let me explain something, hoomans. We cats have known for thousands of years what your scientists are only now publishing in journals: a short nap makes you better at everything. A 10–20 minute snooze improves alertness, boosts creativity, and enhances performance. We didn’t need a research grant for that. We figured it out by simply doing it constantly.
Adult cats sleep around 15 hours a day, mostly in light, restorative bursts. We are not lazy. We are optimized. There is a difference, and the fact that you can’t tell says a lot about you.
Lesson 1: Location — Stop Being So Precious About It
You hoomans act like you need a specially designed “nap pod” or a weighted pillow that costs more than my yearly kibble budget. Ridiculous. I have napped on a laptop, inside a mixing bowl, and balanced on a fence post in light drizzle. The nap was spectacular in every case.
Find a quiet-ish corner – a couch, your car, a park bench. Stop overthinking it. The perfect nap spot is wherever you stop moving and lie down. Revolutionary concept, I know.
Lesson 2: Timing — Your Body Knows. Listen to It.
I am a creature of rhythm. Dawn. Dusk. The exact moment your alarm goes off so I can sit on your face. Everything has its time.
For hoomans, the sweet spot is roughly 1pm to 3pm, when your weird circadian rhythm dips and your body is basically begging you to stop pretending to read emails. Stop fighting it. Lie down. You have permission. (Not from me — I frankly don’t care — but from biology, which is less judgmental.)
Lesson 3: Relax Your Ridiculous Body
Before I nap, I stretch. I knead. I turn in a circle exactly three times for reasons I will not be explaining. Then I release every single muscle in my body like I am melting into the universe itself.
You hoomans sit down, immediately pull out your phone, scroll for 11 minutes, feel guilty, then wonder why you can’t sleep.
Try this instead: put the phone down. Stretch. Then consciously relax every part of your body from toe to head — what the scientists (again, needing to name everything) call a “body scan.” It works. Don’t thank me.
Lesson 4: Darkness — Cover Your Eyes, You Photosensitive Gremlin
Have you noticed how I tuck my nose under my paw when I sleep? That is not adorable. Well, it is adorable, but it is also functional. Darkness signals the brain to wind down. I am always working, even while sleeping. This is what separates us.
You need an eye mask. A proper blackout eye mask. Not a bandana. Not your own arm draped dramatically over your face. A real one. I have begrudgingly identified one that is acceptable:
“Cat Nap” Sleep Mask — Yes, it literally says “Cat Nap” on it because even your sleep products know who the real experts are. You’re welcome.
Lesson 5: Wake Up Like You Mean It — Not Like a Confused Tortoise
When I wake from a nap, I am instantly, completely alert. Eyes open. Threat assessed. Snack considered. This is tens of millions of years of evolution at work.
You? You wake up looking like you’ve been hit by something. Dazed. Confused. Muttering. It’s embarrassing.
Set a gentle alarm for 20 minutes. When it goes off: breathe, stretch, splash cold water on your face, and step outside for a moment. This tells your body nap time is over. Try to look slightly less bewildered. I’m not asking for much.
Smart Alarm Clock — A sunrise alarm that wakes you with gradual light, like the natural dawn, except inside, because you hoomans built walls everywhere for some reason.
Lesson 6: Nap Without Guilt — I Cannot Believe I Have to Say This
I have never — not once — finished a nap and thought, oh, dear, I really should have been more productive. Never. That thought has never entered my magnificent brain.
You lot apologize for napping. You say things like “I just needed a quick rest, sorry!” Sorry to whom? The couch? The ceiling? Stop it. Napping is self-care. It improves your mood, your output, and frankly your personality, which in most cases could use the help.
Weighted Blanket (15 lbs) — Like a hug, but the hug cannot talk to you or ask how your day was. Ideal.
Lesson 7: Be Consistent — Pick Your Spot, Own Your Spot
I have a spot on the third shelf of the bookcase. I have a spot by the radiator. I have the spot on the left side of the sofa that is mine and has always been mine and will always be mine.
This consistency tells my body: here, now, sleep. Yours should work the same way. Same time, same place, every day. Your brain will eventually stop fighting you and just cooperate, like a cat who has finally decided to tolerate you.
Lesson 8: Listen to Your Body, Not Your Calendar
I don’t nap at 2pm because it’s in my Google Calendar. I nap when my body tells me to. When I’m alert, I’m alert. When I’m tired, I sleep. This is called listening to yourself, and I understand it’s a radical concept for creatures who schedule bathroom breaks.
If you’re sluggish and foggy, nap. If you’re energized, don’t. Your body is talking. It has been talking for years. You just keep interrupting it with cold brew.
White Noise Machine — For when your body is ready but the world outside is being unnecessarily loud. Blocks out everything. Including, mercifully, your hooman roommates.
Lesson 9: The Social Nap — Normalize Rest, You Weirdos
Cats nap together. It’s warmth. It’s safety. It’s the unspoken agreement that rest is a shared and respectable activity. You hoomans invented “hustle culture” and decided sleeping was something to be ashamed of in company. This is perhaps your most baffling invention, and I have also judged your Snuggie, your fidget spinner, and your air fryer.
Designate a nap corner in your home or office. Tell people you’re napping. Stop apologizing. Make it normal. I have been napping openly in front of guests for years and no one has said a word. (They know better.)
Lesson 10: The Post-Nap Ritual — Groom Yourself Back to Life
When I wake up, I stretch. I lick my paw. I assess the room with narrowed eyes. I am ready. This is my post-nap ritual and it transitions me, flawlessly, from sleep state to fully operational cat.
You need your own version. Stretch. Drink water. Take a short walk. Do not immediately pick up your phone. You just recharged; don’t drain it again in the first 90 seconds.
Lavender Pillow Spray — Spray it before your nap to signal sleep time, and the absence of it after helps signal awake time. Cats use scent for everything. You’re just catching up.
Purr-ting Thoughts (From Me, Reluctantly)
You are, against all odds, capable of napping well. You simply need to stop overcomplicating it. Find a spot. Time it right. Relax your body. Block the light. Set an alarm. Wake up without drama. Do it consistently. And for the love of all things sacred, stop apologizing for resting.
We cats have been doing this for millennia. You are perhaps 5% of the way there. It is, I suppose, a start.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a shelf to get back to.
— Purrnando 😾
(Do not tag me in your nap selfies. I will not be acknowledging them. But I will be watching.)
This post contains affiliate links. A portion of every sale goes toward funding Purrnando’s lifestyle, which he insists is a tax-deductible necessity.
