It’s 2:12 when Piper wakes me. She has to poop. This doesn’t happen often, but it happens. She always wakes me quietly, with a whisper whine, as if to apologize. I blindly reach for my giant furry housecoat and trudge down the stairs in the darkness. I locate her collar by touch and hear its distinct jingle and click as I put it around her neck. I pull on my boots, put my coat on over top of my pyjamas, and unlock the front door. She sniffs the air for a moment before she crosses the threshold. The stairs creak. The snow is startlingly bright and squeaks crisply. She does what she needs to do and does a U-turn towards the warmth of the indoors. I remove all of my winter gear and watch her make a show out of making a spot for herself on her dog bed, turning around and around until she gets it right and plunk down with a groan. I choose to interpret this as an apology. I go back upstairs but it doesn’t take me long to recognize that sleep will be eluding me for awhile. The temperature re-adjustment causes me to break out in a micro sweat. And then I start to think about All The Things and I make lists. And then I realize that there’s been a song playing in my head this whole time, and it’s not the whole song, but the final line of a familiar Christmas carol: “It’s the most wonderful time of the yearrrrrrrr!” Ugh.
I get up and head downstairs because sleep won’t be coming anytime soon. And I write this.
