Sleepiness blankets my first minutes. No shower. No breakfast. Only time to realize a dog is up. I rush her outside in a stupor, a dreamy haze. I sit on the concrete steps and watch her sniff around the yard, tail wagging. Birds chirp in the trees. Commuters accelerate through Mayberry. The other dog will be up soon, too.
And then I’m running toward Tilly, clapping quietly in desperation. Tilly, how shall we say this, eats twice-baked leftovers in the yard. So anytime one of our dogs does it’s biz in the yard, I scramble to try to locate and bag up the material to avoid a future episode of early morning sprints. I scan the patch of yard (in a figure eight pattern with my low vision) to spot the pile. If necessary, I wear a plastic bag over my hand and start skimming the grass to be sure I’ve cleaned up everything. The effort pays off.
Even if that goes well, I’m trying to get both terriers to stop stretching and get moving in the yard without causing a ruckus as Mayberry snoozes. Usually I miss something. I forget my shoes. Or bags. The cat darts outside with a death-by-terrier wish. One of the dogs decides to bark. Chaos in Mayberry.
Later I serve breakfast–the U eats neatly at his wooden trough of bowls. Tilly gobbles her allocated meal from the kong, anything to keep her focus occupied. I eat cereal or toast over the sink like a rushed mother of toddlers. Boil eggs and I’m a champion of the morning. Stockton usually sleeps through breakfast, choosing rest over calories.
Finally, as we leave for work Ulysses launches onto the sofa and circles to settle in for his first nap of the day. Not gonna lie. At eight thirty in the morning, sometimes I’m jealous of my dog.