Let me begin with a very tearful and very heartfelt THANK YOU for your inquiry as to how we weathered the storm. We are all fine here...just lost power for a short time and got to have a little sleep over at Aunt Chrissy's, but we are none the worse for wear. Our hearts and prayers are with those who didn't fare as well, though, and I extend my usual invitation to anybody who needs a place to stay...come on over -- we'll leave the light on for ya'.
So...on this episode of "Life with a fussy little dog who is slowly driving me to the nuthouse"....
For the most part, Stewey and I are very routine people. We tend to do the same things at the same time every day,and when these routines are interrupted, we feel dizzy and out of sorts.
Apparently, Stewey's new routine involves becoming a farmer, because for the last month and a half my damn dog has awakened precisely at 4:10 am with the urgent need to go outside to sniff the patio chairs and to then come inside to eat breakfast. (Three crunchy little marrow bones and a Greenie, thank you very much). (On the weekend, we have tea and toast in real china cups...but that's another story for another day.)
This morning at 4:10 am when my damn dog shot out from under the covers, launched himself out of the big girl sleigh bed, and ran to the back door, I found myself standing in the hallway shouting at the top of my lungs...."ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME??!!! WHEN DID YOU DECIDED TO BECOME AN EFFING FARMER???!!!"
To which he replied in a manner that only Stewey can..."Mo-ther. As you full well know, I am NOT a farmer. I am a so-phis-ti-cate, and if you had more than a tea cup's worth of brain in your head (see what I mean about the tea cup?), you'd know that it is, by all accounts, a perfectly acceptable time for breakfast in Paris. As a matter of fact, I think it's quite near the brunch hour, so open the door, if you please, and let me examine the patio furniture so that I might come in for a little bite."
I stood there sputtering obscenities for a full ten seconds before I realized that the damn dog had a point and that if I DIDN'T open the door I'd be cleaning up a lot more that Greenie bits and crunchy little marrow bone bits from the ottoman.
So our new routine now goes something like this:
4:10 Morning patio furniture inspection
4:15 Whine at the side of the sleigh bed until Mo-ther reaches down to scoop me up
4:45 Finally realize that stepping an eighth of an inch away from said Mo-ther's extended fingers as she precariously hangs over the side of the bed while reaching down to scoop me up is probably not a good idea for this extended period of time, especially given the old lady's propensity for rage, high blood pressure, and the ability to fall out of the sleigh bed and break an ample (yet apparently surprisingly brittle) hip
5:00 Snuggle back down under the covers and wait until the first Mo-ther snore is heard bellowing from the general vicinity of the pillows.
5:01 Bolt furiously from under the covers, jump off the of the bed, and wait to see how many profanities spew forth.
5:05 Stand in the middle of the living room rug to see if Mo-ther will chase me, or if she'll just give up, say "Oh screw it", and roll over to go back to sleep
5:06 Hear snoring, water the drapes, poop in the dining room, and jump up onto perch to await dawn.
(For the record....the alarm clock is set for 6:30. Do you have any idea how much fun it is to wake up at 4:10 every day knowing that Little Lord Fauntleroy is going to have a full 14 hours of snooze time while I'm out trying to keep him in smoking jackets and Puppy Chow?)