My dog Quagmire is soft and warm and relaxed at 5:30 am. It’s so sweet. I almost hate to disturb him. Almost. Then I remember the millions of times he’s woken me up out of a sound sleep without even a hint of remorse. So…
“Wake up, Fuzz Head.”
He groans. Burrows deeper into the blankets. Gives me the hairy eyeball.
Quagmire is not a morning dog.
I pick him up. He’s as limp as a dishrag. He’s hoping that if he plays dead, I’ll leave him alone.
“It’s time to go pee.”
As I carry him toward the back door, I notice that the rain is coming down in buckets. And it’s cold. Great.
I open the door and put him down. He looks at me as if I’ve taken leave of my senses. He attempts to come back inside.
“Errr.. no. Go potty.”
Maybe I have taken leave of my senses. I’ve only had about 2 hours of sleep myself, as is pretty much standard on Friday mornings, given my insane work schedule. The room is kind of spinning, if I’m honest. I need caffeine. But first, I need this dog to go outside.
He attempts to scoot past my legs. “Quag. Mire. Go. Pee.”
He reluctantly steps out onto the covered deck. He considers doing his business right there. But he forgets that I can read his mind. “Nooooo. Go potty.”
Appearing really resigned and grievously put upon, he trudges out into the downpour. I am so grateful that I’m not a dog. He can’t grasp that this is for his own good. He just knows that no one should have to get one’s paws wet.
He does his thing and runs back inside. He shakes. I towel him off and give him a hug. I put him back to bed, and he falls back to sleep instantly. Okay, maybe I do wish I were a dog.
I put on my raincoat. I grab my backpack. I trudge out into the downpour.
Somebody has to bring home the kibble.