Sunrise sniff…

doxie under cover.

Suddenly the whole bed is sniffing to life.

He’s rising up -

like magma -

our volcano,

Hood or St. Helens -

wiggly wiener,

with his pink pig squeaky toy.

Slo-mo calico

stretches and expands,

casting Halloween black cat shadows

on the farmhouse wall

in night-light glow.

I’m pressing my eyes closed,

fighting awake,

resisting alert,

pretending to sleep. 

Moist meat dripping off last night’s grill

was his morning-after alarm clock

or was it all just another dandy doxie dream?

Hard to tell the difference,

as mere mortal.

I can smell grass in the yard,

and rain

and it pounded all night -

percusison on tin roof,

swelling up brown winter grass,

coaxing spring green.

“Uh-uh- uh- uh- uh…   Uh-uh- uh- uh- uh…”

staccato call

in the yard

quail coaxing

sunrise to peep.

It’s soggy out there.

Heavy air, out;

heavy breathing, in.

He squeezes out,

like over-stuffed sausage,

like a tube of toothpaste,

burrowing,

gaining speed like an underground tunnel bore-

-still boring -

pushing against gravity

and resistance of

sleepy time

and a mangled, tangled bed.

Fat cat stretches out,

expanding to fill up the rest of the Queen.

His super-sized, no-talky, no-hairy, dog-momma

is rolled-taco’d,

teetering on the edge -

as the boring machine does its daily dog thing.

He’s my dinky. My doxie. My Doodle.

 

Hundred and thirteen year old hardwoods

creak awake

under tiny black toenails.

He’s padding out

in sneaky slippers and

weiner wags.

- Dog yoga stretch -

and that creaky sound like a rusty door hinge

for his joker-wide yawn.

Downward dog.

Cat.

Then camel.

Then sausage dog again.

Squinty eyes,

- mischievous -

but never as reliable as old-friend-nose.

The sliding glass view of the outside world –

eagle soars,

hunting for doxie or grey digger or bunny breakfast.

Deep, dark pink-brown shadows,

and hints of purple

and maybe periwinkle

and a sliver of day-glow orange

and one tiny strand of near-yellow.

Just after dawn. Just before daylight.

Piecing call of hunter hawk splits the sky…

(….hmmm, maybe not….

Dog Son dachshund holds off a few minutes….) 

…then, dog door flaps open wide

like a big joker grin,

and he’s off, and out…

to measure and mark…

that magical world of scents

and sensibility

and scenic area splendory.

Creaky old cuckoo clock

startles awake,

a little off-key

and

more than a little off-time.

Like me.