As dawn breaks, the soft overnight symphony of cicadas and cuckoos is interrupted by the clash of kookaburras. I stir from the fetal position I favour every night. Bandit, my smoky-grey cat, nudges his head into my motionless palm, activating his own pat. He relocates from his overnight spot on the pink throw to my hip; each paw applies remedial pressure like a trained therapist. He quickly settles his rump into the curve of my waist and his slender forelegs stretch over my hip to reach my thigh. He rests his head gently on his paws as his tail leisurely skims my arm.

I listen. The master of the house, Archie, purrs like a baritone exercising his larynx before a performance. With dawn comes the orchestra. The pulsating sound of the early bus as it greets the first ferry from Palm Beach — it comes aside the wharf with a thud. The bark of a neighborhood dog as the rhythmic pounding of a jogger approaches.  Adding to the crescendo are cockatoos, rainbow lorikeets and rosellas. 

My Jack Russell, Buddy, sniffs loudly under the sliding door. Any movements in the silent house increase the frequency of his efforts. At last I open my eyes, pat both cats as my toes reach the carpet.  After a visit to the bathroom, I can see both white paws and the sleuthing black nose beneath the door. I slide it open to be greeted by a bouncing white ball of fluff that circles my legs as we walk outside. When I sit on the damp bench, he propels into my lap to listen to the morning mantra, “I love you Buddy.”