Down the Rabbit Hole

Morning Routine

30 Day Blogging Challenge
PROMPT May 18th
Write a poem or stream of consciousness entry about something you do every day.

My husband can not physically get out of bed without a series of alarms, programmed at the infuriating frequency of every five minutes. The first one rings in at 5:10am. It is the one that wakes me up, rudely pulling me into consciousness. Lola, our spirited rescue, usually wakes up by the third or fourth alarm. Even as I lie there, trying to ignore the repetitive buzzing, I can hear the jingle jangle of her tags as she makes her way down the hallway and to our room. Soon, she is at my bedside, whining and brushing her body back and forth against the bed. Lola's sudden arrival wakes Turk, our senior dog. He soon forages his way out from under the crush of blankets. Now we are somewhere between the 6th and 7th alarms and we are all up, except my husband and our daughter, who has grown oblivious to the morning routine.

The dogs and I make our way downstairs where I put them out on the line. Lola races into the yard while Turk meanders along behind her. After a few minutes, they both come back up the deck stairs. I drop food into their bowls and fit a doggie band over our geriatric Turk. He has become as incontinent in his old age and it fits with his marginal blindness and irrational grumpiness so very nicely. Despite his charming attributes, Lola still tries each morning to engage him in play. He stares at her as she makes exaggerated play bows and brings him toys with an every hopeful flourish of energy. After a few moments, Turk wanders off to tackle his own morning routine of trying to fish something out of the kitchen garbage or the bathroom trash.

At this point I usually glance at the clock and think romantically of crawling back into bed, but it is already 5:30. Sometimes if it is a rainy day I can coerce the dogs to come back upstairs to snuggle with our still sleeping daughter for 20 minutes of so before I have to wake her. Most days though, my husband comes racing down the stairs, nearly running late despite all his alarms, and I see him off. I make myself coffee and cling to it while I watch the birds from my breakfast table. Lola begins her vigil, diligently scanning the wood line and swinging birders for the first appearance of her arch enemy, the fat little gray lady squirrel that taunts and teases her. After trying in vane to rub his diaper off with the bottom of my chair, Turk settles at my feet. We greet the morning that way, the three of us...torn so early from our slumber.