You're asleep.
I've been awake since 1:14. I know because I heard the heat click on, and then off, and then on again.
I'm not trying to wake you. I went into the kitchen so you wouldn't hear. But the tile is cold and the licking feels louder in here, like it's bouncing off the cabinets, and I can tell from the hallway light that you're up anyway.
I don't know why I do this.
My paws feel hot. They feel full. There's a buzzing under the skin that only goes away when I lick, and even then it only goes away for about four seconds. So I lick again. And again. The fur between my toes is wet and matted and I know it smells — I've watched you wrinkle your nose when you pick me up — but I can't stop, because if I stop the buzzing comes back, and the buzzing is worse than the licking.
You've taken me to the vet. I know you have. I remember the car, and the cold table, and the woman who lifted my ear and said yeast. You came home with a bottle. Then another bottle. Then chews that tasted like cardboard.
They worked for a little while. They always work for a little while.
And then, around 2 AM, the buzzing comes back.