I awoke this morning to Dog’s Cat hopping back and forth over my torso, like some kind of demented rabbit. This is Act III of her immensely successful, long-running one-cat show entitled, “You’ve Slept Late and Need to Wake Up.” It’s subtitled, “And It’s Time to Feed Me NOW.”
From time-to-time, Dog offers accompaniment in the form of a plaintive whine from the foot of the bed.
Even on holidays, I don’t get to sleep in, because I’m one of those
annoyed annoying people who once they’re up, they’re up.
Dog’s Cat is a brat-brat-brat.
I’m weirdly pleased that even at six-thirty in the morning, I rhyme…
After Dog’s Cat is fed and off to terrorize lizards and hunt squirrels in my backyard, Dog and I do our regular walk.
My neighborhood’s different on the mornings I sleep in. For the six o’clock in the morning as opposed to our usual five o’clock walk it’s a trade-off: We don’t need to dodge sprinkler spray, but I have to wear a bra.
Since it’s a holiday, I let him lead, which he loves to do, usually holding the closest length of leash in his mouth as we meander down the streets beneath the oaks. It’s largely different because there are more people out and about just an hour later than we’re usually taking our morning walk. Two middle-aged joggers (bless their aging hearts) and a couple in their fifties more, to be precise.
Life is uneventful here in this neighborhood. I’m really close to the city (within walking distance of a Starbucks and Panera bread, a PF Chang’s and a Saks. For Nordstrom’s, you need to drive), but we’re cloistered. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The people are nice. Nothing bad ever happens here.
Well, except the tax bill.