Morning

The alarm went off a little too early this morning. One of my eyes had been glued shut from the sleepy gunk that built up during the night. I was cranky. I fumbled out of bed, and tried to find my housecoat in the dark.

It's not unusual for me to stub my toe along the way. I curse a lot in the morning. It's a solid benchmark for my distain of all things morning related. I hate the fuckin' morning. Even the sounds of birds chirping, has a seeming negative effect on me. If only they had some sort of volume control.

To my way of thinking the only good morning thing is breakfast. I love me a good breakfast. But thanks to Denny's, Humpty's and a litany of other restaurants, you can get that stuff 24 hours a day. I tend to like my breakfast at noon, which is a much more civilized time of day to my way of thinking. I'm usually feeling pretty hale and hearty at that point in the day.

Due to some sort of genetic pre disposition, (The damn Irish side of me I suspect…) my feet hurt like a son of bitch in the morning. I need to walk on them for a little bit before the feeling goes away. It almost feels like the tendons have shrunk during the night, and they need to stretch back out before things feel right. Usually the first handful of steps are the worst. Even in my fuzzy slippers, I am uncomfortable.

I have a routine that I generally stick to. It seems to keep me going. (Sort of…) I get up, feed the dog, then she and I both go out on to the deck to have a smoke. (Well… I have the smoke, and she just sits there, a couple of inches ahead of my feet, waiting patiently. I am however considering trying to teach her to smoke… but that's another blog for another time.) It's our quiet waking up time. We both stare out onto the parking lot next to the house. We are two peas in a premature pod.

There we are man and dog, both of us having a slightly glazed over look about us. She sits befuddled, after being roused out of a dream most likely involving helpless cats and big meaty bones, and me left slack jawed with the sinking feeling that work is just a mere 45 minutes away from this point. Somehow, this has become our bonding ritual.

We are both immediately aware of how stock still and quiet the other is. These are the moments before my neck gets kinked up with the stress of the day. Juniper on the other hand will likely just slump over and catch some more sleep. I'm jealous of my dog, and that is truly sad. I'm beginning to wonder what she thinks of when she looks at me.

She's generally a nice dog, a little over eager, but affectionate and charming enough. This early though, she just tends to be a furry little zombie. (Sort of a furry little Muppet version of a zombie…) Her normal frenetic pace has been replaced with the occasional clumsy stretch and wide mouthed yawn. I am no better. (Just larger mostly…)

Once we go back into the house, she heads for her training mat, and goes about her business. We both have predictable routines. I stumble up the stairs and try and make my lazy carcass look somewhat presentable. Generally the dog has better luck with her task than I do with mine. Life would be great if all I had to wear was a collar.

If I could move slower I would. This is the daily process and quite truthfully it begins to feel like a Herculean effort by the end of the week. Somewhere along the way, I became a member of the rat race. I'm not sure how that happened, and worse still, I'm not sure quite what to do about it. Again I come to the realization that I'm jealous of my dog.