2:50 a.m.
I’m getting to bed at a decent hour for once
(well, decent for me).
I let out the dogs.
One’s back in a minute, tail wagging,
as he heads to his bowl for a quick snack.
No sign of dog two.
I whistle.
I call.
Were I bi-pedal, I would put on boots
go in the back yard and bring him in,
but I’m mono-pedal and the office chair
isn’t up for a snowy back yard
never mind the slope I’d never get up.
So I’m waiting.
and waiting
and waiting.
This dog does this a lot
at 3 a.m.
Never at 1 a.m.
or 4 a.m.
What’s that about?
At 3:30, I shut out all the lights
and decide he can sleep on the porch.
until hubby get’s up at 5:00.
Then I see a ghostly shape on the other side of the glass door.
Oh, hello. You’re back already? Grrr.
I steer him down the hall, and he hops up on my bed
with wet, dirty feet. I growl, and smack his butt.
I pick up dog one, who has dry feet, is about to die,
and pees promptly when I put him out and then returns to the door.
In the dark, dog two lies on the dog pillow and I hear cats yowling.
In my bedroom.
In his belly.
Mewling, and yowling, and squeaking, and meowing.
He shifts uncomfortably.
His stomach gurgles and growls.
He can have breakfast later.
I’m going to sleep with the good dog
at my feet.
.
.
(No. He didn’t really eat cats, despite what it sounded like).
Shawn L. Bird 