FIFTEEN YEARS A SLAVE

It’s 5:10 a.m.
The race is on.

Who will be the first to announce the dawn of a new day? Mother Nature slashing a blaze of dazzling light across the horizon just before she catapults that blinding orb into the sky? No. She’s not scheduled to wake up for another thirty-six minutes.

The birds lilting twitters, tweets, and peeps shaking off nighttime dreams of worm breakfasts and gnat snacks? No. With their wee heads tucked under their wings, they’re still snoring – snuggled in tree cavities and dense vegetation, waiting for Mother  to flip on the lights. Oh, and yes, birds do indeed snore…

No.
It’s not the sun, or the birds, or anything else outside the house.
Since adding Lucy to our tribe

Lucy puppy 3.jpgour introduction to every new day is incited by every Labrador’s nemesis
– The Dreaded Empty Stomach –
of which,
Jazzie is Queen

jazzface.jpg

WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
(FEED me. FEED me.)

There’s no sense of urgency.
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
Her bark is more like a persistent dripping faucet.
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
I roll over and hit the light on the bedside clock even though I already know what it says.
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
Mr. Man groans and pulls a pillow over his head, “What time is it?”
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
“5:11”
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he growls. “You’ve got to do something!”
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
“ME? What am I supposed to do?” I grumble. “Just ignore it – like when the kids used to cry because they didn’t want to go to sleep.”
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
“Oh, like that ever worked…” he mumbles.
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
“I heard that!”
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
I sigh, punch my pillow, and punch my pillow, and
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
PUNCH my pillow.
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
I throw off the covers. “Don’t do it!” he says.
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
I pull the covers back over myself – and punch the pillow.
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
I throw the blanket off again.
“Don’t do it!”
I wait, feet dangling off the side of the bed.
Two full minutes pass.
*sigh*
Hmmm – I lay back down.
*heavy sigh*
Pull the covers up to my neck, close my eyes
*heavier sigh*
WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof.
And in the interest of a few more hours of sleep, I squelch the proposed rebellion
by jumping up, sliding into my slippers, and stumbling downstairs to the tune of war cries that would make a banshee cover her ears.
Most times, it’s still dark. But sometimes, I catch the moon SILENTLY setting…

moonset

In moments like this I forget about how we’ve allowed ourselves to become slaves to a dog. After all, it hasn’t always been like this. When Mr. Man and I are 105 years old, we’ll be a bit crotchety and demanding too, right?
WOOF!
“Right.”
I fill their bowls, have them sit, stay, wait – then I bark, “Bon Appétit!”

What are you a slave to? Work – Schedules – Kids – Goldfish? And how do you stay sane?

About Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner

I am an adventure seeking ponderer of the mysteries of the universe, writer of children's books (represented by Stephen Fraser of the Jennifer DeChiara Literary Agency), and lover of anything involving armor, archery, or swashbuckling.
This entry was posted in ADVENTURES, FAMILY, HUMOR, LUCY and JAZZIE and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

11 Responses to FIFTEEN YEARS A SLAVE

  1. ubensmom says:

    I feel for ya chick. UGGH. Bernd and his oldest grandson sat at the dining room table watching the animal video and cackled for half an hour like a couple of girls. The laughing made me laugh of course. Thanks for the chuckle. And tell Jazzy we all said “HUSH!!!”

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  2. Diana says:

    They look like such angels in the pictures!

    Like

  3. 3 am kitty cries, quickly followed by a coordinated cat attack, led me to purchase a god of their own making – an auto feeder. I have one you could try… Now, all of this is in avoidance of the key question – what am I slave to? At the moment, it seems to be around stuff! Too much stuff, things, coveted items which are not being used – stuff.

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  4. Lyn says:

    Oh you poor girl! I’m certain dogs are a lot smarter than us, in fact, I think they train us rather than the other way around. I’m really blessed, because Cally never gets up before me. We have established a sort of ritual. As soon as I wake up, she belly crawls from the foot of the bed to the top and scratches at the blankets. I lift the blankets and she crawls back down to the foot of the bed – under the blankets. I get up and do what I have to do in the morning before breakfast and then – usually half an hour later, Cally deigns to crawl up to the top of the bed and put her head on my pillow and looks at me…waiting for me to begin our morning ritual. This consists of me covering her head with the sheet and saying, “Where’s Cally?” She in turn, flips the sheet off her head with both paws and snaps her teeth at me. We repeat this for a few minutes and then I ask, “Do you want some breakky?” LOL that gets her out of bed and running to the kitchen. So much nicer than WOOF! woof. WOOF! woof 🙂

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  5. I’ll let my dog Stonewall comment — ” WOOF ” !
    ( I think that means she liked it )

    I enjoyed this read- thank you !

    Like

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