I tried a new plan today.
It failed. Have decided I have two choices. 1) Wake every frelling morning at 8:30am or 2) return pets to the pound. Just thought I’d jot down a quick entry before I load up the annoyants since the animal shelter doesn’t open until 11:30am.
Last night, I explained my situation to Kevin and we worked out a new plan. Kev was going to get up and head to work without feeding the dog or putting him out. Instead, he was going to move Artie up onto the bed in the hopes that he’d be content to sleep in with me. This part of the plan worked brilliantly. Artie popped up on the bed, Kevin left, and I sank back into peaceful slumber with dreams of arising around....oh, elevenish, floating downstairs where I’d feed the dog and let him out for his morning routine while I fried up some sausages and drank espresso.
At 8:30am, the plan went horribly wrong. I had forgotten one very important (and loud) factor. Fatty cat. For reason I cannot explain, Fatty decided she wanted to get fed this morning and so, at 8:30am, she planted her big fat butt on the upstairs railing (well, mostly one with some chubs hanging over the side) and began to cry.
meow (feed me)......Meow (Feed Me).....MEEEEEOOOOOOW (FEEEED ME NOW DAMNIT!!!)
At 8:45, I was firmly buried under blanket and pillows trying to hide from that piercing cry. Artie, however, had enough. With an audible sigh, he jumped from the bed and walked over the Fatty who meowed in his face. He replied with a growl that even I could understand meant, “shut up and go away, we’re trying to sleep”. Fatty refused to be bullied by a dog and returned a growl all of her own. Artie, who isn’t a morning dog in the first place, took his big old nose and poked her in the butt. Fatty returned the poke with a swipe across the nose. Next thing I know, there’s barking and snapping, hissing and swiping.
I just gave up and got out of bed.
This is tough. I mean, on a normal work day, I’d go to my little coffee shop on the way to work and they’d see me and smile. “Good morning!” they’d cry, “the usual?” And before I knew it I had a cup of hot coffee and a croissant in my hand. Even on weekends, I knew I could wake to a pot of brewed coffee and Kevin burning pancakes in the late morning/early afternoon.
Now, nothing. I come downstairs to an empty coffee pot and I have to not only make my own but then cook my own breakfast. This whole life of leisure thing is turning out to be tougher than I thought. And it gets worse. After breakfast, I have to make my own lunch! Phew, just thinking about it tires me out. Maybe I’ll go join the dog on the sofa for a quick nap....