It's the Thought That Counts

It’s the Thought that Counts

Smart people do not leave young puppies alone and unsupervised for any length of time (like five minutes).  I do not claim to be smart.  I just claim to be tired and wanting just another 45 minutes horizontally before I start my day.  Last year I switched to using my cell phone for an alarm clock.  Because of the laws of midlife mental dissipation and retention, I probably don’t even remember how to set a real alarm clock anymore.  Most recently, I realized that I was getting up due to causes other than alarm clocks… namely:  Bethany Darlin’ Pearl, Madeline Grace Pearl, and Valor Prince of Morning Glory Acres.  (Since they will most likely never make it to the Westminster, I thought I’d use their full names here for posterity.)

Some very wise person once noted that the key to getting up feeling well-rested was going to bed at a decent hour.  I believe my response was along the lines of:  “Define ‘decent.’”  It’s a pretty subjective word.  If I have worked an 8 hour day, spent one hour of daily commute time, and am trying to rustle up some dinner and get the laundry going or scoot off to a meeting, “Decent” looks a lot like 10:30pm.  However, that was when I mostly got to sleep through the entire night.  With the addition of Valor the Prince to my household that changed.

Valor needs to be able to have supper, go potty about four times, play “Monsters” with Madeline Grace, and burn off some steam between the hours of 7-10 in order for him to have a shot at getting up only ONCE in the middle of the night.  And when Valor is UP, we are ALL UP, trust me on this.  The Metropolitan Opera heard him across the other end of the state and has mailed us an application for his solo work.  That being said, our ritual has become: bed at 10pm.  Maybe he permits me to read or play a few hands of solitaire on the ipad without whining, maybe not.  It depends.  I guess the planets need to line up.  The day Cookie Jam crashed on me last week and I got thrown from level 97 back down to level 1 every time I open the game up, I wish he had not let me play that night.  I still get sad thinking about it in a way.  I know that he has accepted the kennel as his fate when I hear the little “huff” of a sigh as he hunkers down.  It is a close relative of teenagers rolling their eyeballs at parents – they know they lost the argument but they still weigh in to make you know they are under protest.

Little Valor decides that he must get up at around 2:30 am or 3:30 am to go outside and chew on the arborvitae shrub…. So we all get up and go out to freeze.    I am waiting for the spring day to come when we will startle the herd of deer that comes to eat from the neighbor’s apple tree which is adjacent to our dog pen.  That will be a panic.  As it is, sometimes he doesn’t get right down to business but engages Madeline in some abbreviated form of their “Monsters” game.  Then I try and corral the three of them back inside and am able to bribe him with a treat to go willingly back to his kennel for Part B of Sleeping. 

At 5:30 a.m. he notifies me again that it is time to be up and at ‘em.  I disagree but the other two dogs break the tie-vote.  I run the three of them out to the yard again and go in and do things people in my coma-like state should not have to do…. I set out the dog food for them and if I have the presence of mind, I clean the litter boxes also.  Then I let them in, set them at the dog dishes, and go very unceremoniously … back to bed.  As noted earlier, I am just seeking after that extra 45 minutes.  This is when the gift-giving begins.

Valor eats half his food and comes up the two doggie steps onto the bed and burrows in next to me …. most of the time.  Unless he comes with Madeline right behind him and then we have a full scale game of “Monsters on the Bed.”  I just try to protect myself from the gnashing teeth.   I have actually learned to sleep through “Monsters” – which most people would not be able to do.  Then – silence -  they vanish.  I drift away.  I kind of find myself not caring…. Then my eyes snap open.  Immediately, I care.

I heard the clunk.  I lean over the edge of the bed.  The old toilet plunger – now with a gnawed wooden handle – lies at the edge of the bed on the rug.  I am too tired.  I roll over again.  I think I hear my junky yard shoes getting chewed upon by razor like little teeth.  No harm, no foul.  I roll over again.  Then, all three dogs are up on the bed.  The silence is almost church-like.

I sit bolt upright.  That is a maneuver which can actually hurt you mid-life so I don’t recommend it.  But there I am, and as I bend forward toward the foot of the bed I see why I should ALWAYS clean the litter box at the 5:30 a.m. run:  The Prince has brought a snack from the Litter Box Café onto the bed.  The other dogs are so proud of him:  he has learned another of the Dark Dog Ways. 

For a moment I wonder if me having an empty stomach is better or worse than seeing and breathing these next few minutes.  I grab a Kleenex and remove the offense and cry out, “Dogs OFF THE BED!”  They have achieved their goal of getting me up and moving for the day.  I don’t resent it.  It’s all in good fun.  Except the smell.

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