Last week I read that white noise machines are they key to restful sleep. The author was spouting off all the conventional sleep hygiene advice—consistent bedtime, black out curtains, and lowering the temperature.
The white noise machine is also conventional advice, but this guy was all in on it, boldly proclaiming that you “weren’t even trying” to get good sleep if you didn’t use one, and ordering everyone to try it that very night.1
I’m lucky that as a general rule I don’t have trouble sleeping (the book was actually about writing, and went off on this tangent into the importance of sleep) but he convinced me to give it a try.
That night I carried my Alexa into the bedroom and told her to play a sound labeled “rain on a tent”—not technically white noise, but I always sleep best when it’s raining. As soon as the sound came on, Blinker’s ears pinned back as she looked around in terror.
She raced from the room.
I figured she’d be back. I’ve had Blinker since December 2017, and every night since then she’s slept in bed with me, usually right on my chest.
No doubt she’d get used to the unfamiliar noise and come back into the room. After all, she’s heard real rain before.
As for me, the rain sounds worked brilliantly—at first. I was completely out in minutes.
But I was restless—and a few hours later, I woke up with the feeling something was wrong. I glanced over at the clock—3 a.m.
The fake rain was still raining. The room was nice and cool. The pillows were soft.
Everything was perfect.
But no Blinker.
I got up and searched for her. I found her downstairs all huddled up in the corner of the living room. When she saw me, she slinked out and started a pathetic little cry.
I didn’t need to speak cat to know she was asking me why I let the monster sound chase her from the bedroom. I tried to get her to come upstairs, but she wouldn’t budge.
Instead, I returned and turned off the rain maker. I went back to look for her, but she met me halfway up the stairs, a little bounce in her step. She peered around the room, and when she was assured the monster making the noise had been banished, she jumped up on the bed.
I laid back down with no rain, no white noise, just a kitty who climbed on me like always and purred and purred and purred with gratitude over the restoration of our routine.
We both slept like babies.
We will never speak of the white noise machine again.
1For those wondering, the book in question was “Someday is Today” by Matthew Dicks.