November 13, 2010
Yesterday, I was out of sorts.
Not myself.
Still internally and emotionally reeling from the family dinner from hell the previous evening, and the subsequent post-dinner combat.
Family.
You love them, but you don't always like them.
Nor should you.
Cause that would be unnatural.
And of course, conflict between Mer and me is almost expected.
I've come to the conclusion that we are simply too much alike.
Niether one willing to back down, willing to take full responsibility for whatever has happened, because both of us are completely aware that neither one of us is fully responsible.
But when you throw the ultimate fighter into the mix, add another estrogen filled Flemming-gene carrier, well then, you have an all. out. war.
Because my mother is never one to sit back and just watch conflict.
She jumps in the ring before she's even been tagged.
Making her spontaneous and unpredictable.
Meaning you never know when that well filed, razor sharp, elongated fingernail will point at you with the woman at the end of that nail telling you exactly where the bear shit in the buckwheat.
Angry jumped to volatile when Mum tagged herself into ring.
Making a long night interminably longer.
And the following day not much better.
But, ever the optimist, I'm holding on to hope that today will be better.
Even a modicum of better would be welcome.
Luckily, I had Frankie and Tikka to come home to last evening, once we had finished our volunteer time at the Community Kitchen (http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/).
If I didn't have my weekly jolt of real world living, I don't know if I'd make it through the week.
Seriously.
So, when we arrived home last evening to the unlimited love and adolation of my happy hounds, I felt some of the day's tension immediately drain away.
But. . .
Because there is always a but. . .
Frankie has developed this terribly annoying habit.
A result of his I-have-to-pee-every-two-hours-because-you're-forcing-antihistamines-down-my-throat-every-12-hours-so-it-just-sucks-to-be-you.
In spite of not having antihistamines shoved down his throat every two hours, he had convinced himself that we need to get up when he wants us to get up.
For the last month, at least, as early as 4.30 some mornings, Frankie stands in the threshold of our bedroom and starts whining.
Quietly at first.
But, as time passes and we do not respond, immediately, his whining becomes louder.
More demanding.
And if we have the audacity to ignore the increasingly louder whining, the whining that increases in volume as each minute passes, then he moves into phase three of his early morning assault.
Barking.
Not ferocious, hackle raised barking.
Thankfully.
But minute yips.
Sending little jolts of puppy persistence into my sleep addled consciousness.
Most frustrating, however, is that Stephen is beside me, snuggled deep into the duvet, head nestled into the pillow, completely aware of what is going on.
And completely ignoring it.
Because he knows that of the two of us, I'm the one who will give in to Frankie's pre-sunrise solicitations.
How come?
My deep seeded desire to not step into a cold puddle of pee during my trek to the kitchen when I am supposed to haul myself out of bed.
And Frankie knows this.
So, as long as he stands there, yipping, whining, carrying on in his desperate attempt to get one of us out of bed, he knows eventually, I will force myself out of bed.
Slip on a pair of wool socks, cause its cold outside at 5.00 am.
Put on my slippers.
And begin my stagger downstairs.
Grab their leashes, because neither one of them would come back if they were, perchace, enticed by some early morning, hungry, garbage rooting critter, and I am NOT chasing dogs through my neighbours' yards at 5.00 am.
And stumble outside.
Eyes half closed.
Standing in my zebra print pjs, ears tuned to the sounds of my canine companions hunt for the perfect place to evacuate.
While my nose is assaulted with the stench of early morning puppy pee.
They maneuver me back inside the house, where they being their we're-gettin'-breakfast shenanigans.
And depend on the time, I may sucuumb to the power of their digestive dancing and feed them.
Or, if its just too early to even contemplate the idea of walking into the kitchen, flicking on the harsh, unfriendly light to haul out the Rubbermaid bins filled to the brim with dog food, pick up the empty dog bowls, fill them, and then place them in their appointed spaces, I will just head back upstairs to nestle into the warmth of my bed.
I love those dog food commercials where dogs run to their side-by-side dog bowls, and eat from only one of those bowls, harmoniously, happy, content to just be together during dinner.
Here, we have to put as much distance between Frankie and Tikka as possible.
And even then, Tikka will sometimes lay herself in front of Frankie's bowl, prohibiting him from eating his breakfast.
Because she is Tikka, stubborn to the very fiber of her being, she WILL NOT move until one of us comes along and forcibly moves her to her own food bowl.
While she grumbled the entire time.
And if we don't move her, Frankie begins another onslaught of wailing and whining and yipping until some does come along to vacate Tikka from Frankie's food premises.
Tikka is a lazy eater.
She throws herself on the floor and eats slowly.
Frankie, on the other hand, puts his paw inside his bowl, and moves to whereever he wants to eat at that minute, and throws himself into his food with such gusto you can't help but admire his excitement.
He is, without a doubt, the loudest eater I have ever encountered.
Apart from Keith and Stephen.
Everyone is a 10 kilometer radius knows when Frankie is eating.
Drinking is the same way.
He doesn't drink water so much as chew it.
Lifting his head from the bowl, water dripping from his snout all over the floor, he looks like he's been bobbing for apples.
So, unless I feel the need to become fully wakened to the sounds of my frantically eating Frankie, I go back to bed.
While listening to the sounds of my dry doggies shuffling around, arranging their blankets and pillows to resume sleeping. . . .
. . .and Stephen, who has been resting peacefully in our bed, listening to the pre-daytime one act pee play enacted every morning, who opens one eye and asks in a fake sympathetic tone,
"Do you need any help, honey?"
Ummmm.
And he sleeps the rest of the morning with that one eye open.
Believe me
Title Lyric: Shake Dog Shake by The Cure
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