Sleepwalking

Waking up to take the dog for a walk

As I grab another neck-wrenching peak at the clock I see that it’s a quarter after 7.

My chore weighs heavily on my tired bones as I dare not delay it any longer.

You see, there’s a little gremlin that I need to take on an early daylight excursion. He’s gonna want to experience the same relief that I need to experience.

My feet barely hit the carpet when I hear Scooter shake as if he’s competing in a midget hula-hoop contest. Obviously he’s dry as a bone as the only thing he’d been swimming in for the last 4 hours are the blankets and sheet behind me. The reflex suggesting that he’d just gotten out of the shower kicks in.

I suppose that must be his way of non-verbally announcing his attendance.

I look behind me for a split second and notice that all I can see of my wife is the crown of her head feather out from her cocoon fortress like orange colored salsa poking out of a floral, breathing burrito. 

She doesn’t even stir. 

I don’t even bother to don my glasses off the nightstand as I traipse out of our bedroom and walk into the head to evacuate my bladder.

It feels like I’ve had to pee ever since we left the bar, 

but I'm pretty sure I took care of some business after I got home last night. 

I leave a hand on the sink counter for balance as Brown’s lower resonating trumpet of fury treats me to a toe curling, thunderous and window rattling call to action.

I swear it brings a tear to my eye as a shiver boogies up my spine and tramples the back of my neck.

Curious, the dog springs even more to life.

I can hear a single bass thump knock against the floor as he decides to investigate. From the security of the bed, he circles around to keep a floor's eye view of my balls.

Staring at the toilet bowl, I hear the clicking of claws scamper across the vinyl flooring behind me.

I look down at the little 10 pound sand colored dachshund Maltese mix while listening to the wrath of my prostrate.

“Just give me a minute,” I ask.

He gives me this look, “A minute? A month??? I have no concept of time here.

“When you get the chance? I really have to scope out some real estate.”

“I know, I know,” I answer. “Don’t get your fuzzy britches in a knot, I’ll take you out in a minute!!!” 

“No rush!

“I’ll just sit here and scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch until you’re ready.” His leg itches just below his left ear causing his paw to percuss against the fake wood grain floor in rhythm to a song I’d never heard of.

I eventually rescue my pair of jammy bottoms out of the laundry basket and do that one legged hop-balancing act to get my other foot into its proper sleeve.

Scooter decides that what I’m doing looks less like getting dressed and more like invoking playtime. With a wild whiskered grin, he snags the appropriate pant leg and tries to run off.

“HEY!” My a*s hits carpet like a bomb blew.

After tripping me, he immediately drops interest and begins to dig at himself.

Finally, I’m able to pull them up.

Nine times out of ten, the flip-flops I practically live in when I’m not at work or out-and-about where walking is a factor are at large in the living room. Blurry-eyed without my glasses, I make my way toward the kitchen and find them strewn about by the sliding glass door that leads to our postcard size third floor balcony.

I happen to glance up at a hummingbird hovering over the propane grill that monopolizes a good two thirds of our deck. It looks confusingly between me through the glass and the red jersey knit shorts I have draped outside.

“Hey, hey, hey...” the creature gestures toward me. “These should be 

in YOUR apartment. Why are they out here in MINE?” 

I just nod my appreciation, turn about face and march toward the front door; all the while telegraphing each step through the house with a foam rubber “thwack!” as my thongs harmlessly whip the bottoms of my feet.

Scooter (of course) recognizes this sound and after a moment of using his teeth to dig into his rear as if it’s a featured item at the Country Kitchen Buffet??? He meets me at the front door with his tail wagging. He’s so excited to be going outside that he leaks all over the entryway and makes it excessively difficult for me to leash him up.

I mean at some point... He actually tells me to go on ahead without him (as if I’m the one amped to go outside in the first place) and opts to hop back into bed with the wife.

I have no recourse but to flip-flop after him.

It’s only when I physically pick him up and put a stop to his squirming, that I can finally clip the leash on him.

As I place him back onto the floor, he begins to pull against his collar in effort to budge size 12s from the floor. Perhaps he thinks he’s a snow dog mushing to break my runners loose from the ice. With all ten of his pounds, he tries to get me to move faster, but the only thing he manages to do is strangle himself.

By the time we make our way back to the front door, he’s choking and out of breath. 

“Well, Dummy? What did you expect?”

Oblivious to my insult, his answer is something like, “Hold on a minute! Give me a second to recover from this asthma attack...” But, as I open the door anyway - he forgets his perils and tries his damnedest to pull me down all 3 flights of stairs.

As I walk him down, his rib cage rides low to the floor. The corners of each step narrowly miss his undercarriage as he scurries toward terra firma like a fur bearing, floppy-eared sausage link rat with a hyperactive tail.

We descend 7 steps, turn around and take on 7 more, turn and finish with 9.

That’s 23 stairs if you're bad at math.

Hell that's 23 stairs even if you're good at math.

Even in my half asleep, zombie-like state, I still count every stupid last riser.

He usually reaches the dirt before I do and by the time I finally catch up right beside him (half a second later???), he’s already set his course.

With his nose precious few millimeters from the ground, he’s ready to yank me on a little miniature safari.

This is how he gets his news.

He doesn’t care about what’s happening in the world, he doesn't care who’s president.

As far as he's concerned? HE'S in charge. 

All he cares about is who’s stepped onto his property and reestablishing all this is his.

I yank impatiently on his leash. “Come on! Just pee already.” Keep in mind he's already peed. My brain, eyes and face begin to protest over the absence of my glasses. Kind of like a hand grieving over the loss of a thumb, Scooter starts to behave as if he’s found pay dirt.

He takes me to the courtyard where he loves to crone for the affections of a certain poodle b***h in “F” building.

Only when I find that his barking at her window attracts the attention of every other dog in the complex, am I able to convince him to bail and recon the mailboxes.

With his nose buried into the terrain the entire way, we decide to circle back around front. Only then, is he satisfied and will let us climb back up those 9 steps; turn around to ascend 7 more, turn back and finish the last 7.

I open the door, release him and bury my face back into the pillow. As quickly as I woke up to do this little chore, I’m back on my left 

side and trading accusatory glances with my glasses that sit discarded on my nightstand.