I am always the first one up. On purpose. I love the quiet. And when the other beings in my house begin to emerge, there are Saturdays when it takes everything in me to be congenial.
Don’t get me wrong…I live with very good people and pretty good dogs. Neither are in the habit of demanding more than their fair share, certainly no more than I demand of them. But I do wonder if there are times I could be content living the hermit life.
Today began as most Saturdays: I settle onto my living room couch with my coffee, computer, Weekend section from the Washington Post and other sundry things I intend to read, basking in the aloneness, the solitude, those precious minutes when there’s no one about. I expect at least an hour before anyone will bother me so I’m all set.
It’s at this exact moment, ass on couch and coffee in mid-slurp, when Mac gets up from his cozy bed in the hidey-hole near the heat vent in the kitchen and begins to stare me down. Usually he gives me no notice, waiting instead for the real pushover, my husband JB, to come padding down the stairs. Most mornings JB can’t even consider getting his first cup of coffee before Mac and Izzy (our Beagle-Jack Russell) have sprung out of their beds at the sound of his familiar footsteps and are doing their little yappy dance, requesting an audience for their morning constitutional.
For some reason, though, Mac will not wait and starts an incessant whine; Izzy is still lying in her bed, not bothered by the annoyance. But this one has staying power. He will whine and moan as long as it takes to get what he wants. I try to ignore him but after a few minutes it’s really no use. I’m not a cruel person, but I’m no pushover either. I have a pretty strong will of my own, having raised two willful boys (I have NO idea where they got that from) and from teaching middle school.
But I can take it no longer. I get up. And the day begins. Mac, with Izzy in tow, gets his way. They do their business and get their treats, which I’m sure is what they really wanted. I pour another cup of coffee and sit back down on the couch, sandwiched by dogs on either side of me. Shortly thereafter, my husband emerges and the dogs take off for their preferred person. He gives them another treat (of course!), turns on oldies music (aka the music we grew up with) in the kitchen and begins talking (he’s a good man, but a real talker); my silence is broken. I guess it’s time to get over myself and join the human race. I make muffins.