It was really early on Sunday morning, at about 6:45 a.m. and I was wondering if the Easter bunny had paid me a visit.
As it happens every morning when the pad of my right foot barely touches the floor as I crawl out from under the blankets, the dogs raised their morning racket of yips and yawns.
Predictably in the middle of the kitchen floor I found Cash stretching and snorting and baring his teeth in that ridiculous grin he can make as he and his sidekick drum up their impatience for the morning piddle.
I am struck by the sheer routine character of the canine capers, whose every move and gesture I can count on each morning—including their beaming positive attitudes.
There’s something wise and wonderful about dogs that wag at the dawn and birds that sing their hearts out as the sun rises, despite not knowing what the day may bring them.
Yesterday morning I dragged my sorry carcass to the coffee pot in hopes that a cup of java would eliminate the sore muscles with which I awoke after fighting off fanged ghouls in my dreams—thanks to a late night episode of “The Vampire Diaries”.
Today I awoke with the sense that I’d been run over by a genealogy convoy in the night due to the countless hours I’ve spent researching my family tree.
On each morning occasion, I wasn’t in the greatest mood and still the furred companions who rent floor space here endorsed my presence.
Perhaps they were trying to tell me how pleased they were with themselves for not licking at the chip bowl that sat open on the kitchen table all night.
Or that they were proud of themselves for having allowed Peter Rabbit to hop to it at 2 a.m. without stripping him of his fur and leaving it strewn about the house for my next angora sweater project.
And I didn’t find any half-eaten dog-slobbered Easter goodies lying around—which on any other morning would lead me to believe that at least some of my dog training skills about unsupervised food, had met with success.
But at this juncture all it meant was that the bunny master had forgotten to hide the Easter egg treats at all. They were still stacked in their packaging next to the mixing bowls in the cupboard.
“Out of sight, out of mind” was my rationale—unlike last week when the “Cadbury” 34gram-weight eggs I’d thought would look nice sitting in my wire chicken egg basket on the counter, had no sooner been laid there than eaten by me—all 10 of them. “Buk-buk” barf.
The Easter Bunny had left two meaty dog bones for the canines to enjoy. I threw the tasty treats out into the yard and stood there grinning as Dot ran around the house with hers, then went and lied down for about 10 seconds before beginning the circuit again.
Cash just stayed put on the grass, chewing on his bone and rolling over on his back and flailing his legs in the air as he chewed, clearly delighted with himself.
After breakfast, I took to the outdoors to burn off four more Cadbury eggs I’d eaten, and to make room for the fine Easter dinner that was calling me to my parents’ house at 4 p.m.
I decided to make firewood out of the limbs of a 43-year-old rotted out evergreen tree that my husband felled while he was home at Christmas.
He’d left the wood carcass in long scraggly twig-infested chunks and piled it all in an area of the yard that clearly did not meet the approval of the yard committee.
I spent the afternoon stripping dead branches off with my hands, and every once in while used my foot for leverage when I came across a tough part of the tree.
There were foot traps everywhere and as I torqued and tugged in a Herculean fashion, I stepped backwards without looking.
In that microsecond that it took for my carcass to meet with gravity, all I could think about was the pile of gooey spring-soaked dog poop I was likely to land in.
I went down flat on my back, legs and feet flailing in the air. Thankfully the only thing injured was my self-esteem as I imagined the whole world just saw me topple like a sack of flour.
I stayed there for a minute on my back and watched as two big ravens flew overhead cackling at the sideshow. They were the only ones that noticed.
Not even the dogs had looked up from where they were parked within 20 ft. of me each coveting their dog bone.
At the very least I had expected them to interpret my fall as a playtime gesture and bound over to pounce on me.
I sat up, looked at the canine stupors and said out loud, “Thanks for making sure I was alright.”
They both looked at me from their prone positions with long, blank dog stares that smacked of “Huh?” before re-focusing on their sinewy synopsis.
I felt a little snubbed just then and my Alpha ego was slightly bruised.
But it was nothing that a few more Cadbury eggs wouldn’t fix.
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