I like routines. I like a vague semblance of a plan. It doesn't ALL have to go according to said plan, I can be spontaneous and smell the roses and carpe the diem like nobody's business, but most days? I like to know what's up.
Take for example, my morning routine--get up a little early, pad down the stairs to have a cup of coffee, read a little, write a little, fall back asleep on the couch a little. Whatevs. Having an extra dog around? Throws me off balance. Literally.
So there I was, being all State Farm ad slogan-y. Like a good neighbor, SSG was THERE. I love my neighbors. I love their dog. I really do. I just don't love that their dog doesn't understand that when the alarm goes off it does not mean we get up RIGHT THEN. It means we hit the little button that says SNOOZE. But their dog is smart. My dog is smart too, but she knows it's pointless to try and get me up the first alarm go around. At least she did. Until today. Because I got up on the first alarm. You try having Lassie staring at you, whining at 3:52 a.m.
The kicker? The whining doesn't stop. It goes on. And on. Like some hairy version of Celine Dion. You heard it here first, it's NO WONDER Lassie was a sheltie.
"What? Is Timmy stuck in the well, Lassie?" I asked him as we (read: they) bounded down the stairs.
"What? You know who shot J.F.K?" (Lassie spins in circles, SSG is unable to crack her eyes open enough to see where the leash goes amongst the Crystal Gayle style locks he has going on.)
"You have an idea for an alternate energy source?" (SSG holds onto the leashes and water skis behind two dogs as they bomb out the front door.)
After the dogs had a chance to pee before I did (Future Husband, if you're reading? I don't ACTUALLY do that. This is where I fictionalize my posts.) we were all walking back inside when I was just in the middle of thinking "I hope none of the neighbors see me in my red pajama pants and cute peep toe Steve Madden flats." I took a step but my foot kept going, straight out in front of me like some skateless version of shooting the duck.
I came down hard on my other knee (that never happened at the Aquarius Roller Skating Rink?!) and before I knew it I was sitting in the middle of the street with two dogs staring at me like "wut r u doin' der?"
Lassie "Whine. Whine. Whine."
And I'm sure he was telling me all about how I should wipe my skinned up knee with some alcohol to make sure it was good and clean. But really, Lassie. The only alcohol necessary? Grey Goose.
4 a.m. is still considered evening, right?
3 comments:
In some part of the world it is. I don't mean to giggle at the calamity (sorry) but damn. Well, good shoes to walk the pups - Fashionista Rule #3; Daring fashion - we'll just call you Carrie Bradshaw.
As for Lassie - tell him Timmy fell down the well cuz he had TOO much Grey Goose. That might keep him at bay for at least the first snooze button.
FUNNY! Except for the falling down part; hope you're OK... It's interesting what happens when our normal rhythms get interrupted and our comfort zones pushed a little. Thanks for sharing this humorous post!
The dogs, (read as beasts), need to be St. Bernards with the little first aid kit around their necks. You know they are reported to carry liquor in there. I am thinking that could come in handy...
Post a Comment