I went to sleep last night after the first click of the year of the electric blanket and a cool, almost cold, breeze on my face from the porch door. It was bliss. I was trying to read Crusoe's Daughter by Jane Gardam and her description of the 'blue-green salt- marsh grasses, shadowy fields of sea lavender reflected and were reflected in the sky...", but my eyes began to cross and I only had the strength to reach behind me and shut the light.
It happens every year, the electric blanket fog. I must relearn every year to use it judiciously. Switch it on high as son as I get in bed, and I am snoring and drooling in 5 minutes. If I intend to watch a program that I've waited all week to see, or to crack open the latest novel that I've been thinking about all the work day, then do NOT turn that dial to higher than "5", just enough to take the chill off.
We never used one until the past few years. And now it is like crack. Don't touch my controls, you have your own!
The dogs love it and hate it. They jump up, straddle my lap, edge closer and closer to my head in case one of them gets more pets than the other, and curl up for the night. Within a few minutes, they end up jumping off the bed when they get too hot. But not before just managing to slowly push me out of my own bed until one leg is on the floor, preventing me from completely falling out, and much yelling ensues. Thus, our dogs sleep in crates. Locked crates. (Except sometimes Sarah gets too sleep on the bed; sssh - don't tell Brewster.)
Morning is the reverse commute. Do not click the dial on at say 5:30, unless you have the day off cause you will fall back into REM sleep and never hear the alarm. Thankfully Mr. Pom's flashlight, the one he uses so as not to turn on the lamp and "wake me" while finding matching socks, causes Sarah to go nuts defending the bedroom from the light monster, and her scrabbling claws on our wooden floor would wake the dead, and me.
The cooling weather and darkening evenings makes for frisky, bored dogs. Last evening Brewster paced around the living room like a caged tiger. We hid behind newspapers. Time to lay in the stores of kongs and rawhide. And sedatives (for us).
Right now they are asleep butt to butt across the bed like a doggie bumper guard. They've been fed, watered, walked, pooped, and petted. Brewster will last about ten minutes and if I'm not getting dressed by then, will stand on the bed and peer down at me, stamping his paw, until I throw a pillow at him or roll out and run in the bathroom to escape. Sarah will just keep sleeping unless I pet Brewster, in which case she will sidle up to me, paw me repeatedly with a paw that you could sand a board with, then Brewster will try to bump her off the bed, and all the while I am covering my face with my arms to prevent scarring.
Thus, morning at The Pom house.
This weekend we left them at the kennel while we slipped up to the Cape for a weekend - alone! No 4:30 wake up calls! No barbecues for twenty! No home repairs or projects!
Just he and I and a clear blue sky.
I wore black all weekend with nary a dog hair.
But we couldn't bear to walk at the point without them and I kept thinking we needed to get back to the house to let them out.
We are the prisoners. In Stockholm.
Gotta go - the bathroom wastecan is being pillaged.