Today was my day to sleep in. No, my life is not by any means particularly strenuous, but when I plan a day to sleep in, when I take the time to anticipate the delicious ecstasy that is prolonged slumber, I don’t want to be forced awake any earlier than absolutely necessary. This morning, however, at exactly 7:22am (which was two hours and thirty-eight minutes before I was scheduled to be assaulted by my alarm), I was awakened to discover that my puppy was not only hyperventilating, but that she had also vomited on the down bedspread mere inches from my bare flesh. This bit of indigestion was probably not a direct result of eating my cell phone charger yesterday (rendering it completely inoperable), but in my intense irritation, I could not help but find a correlation.
The dogs then spent the next hour loudly quarreling on the floor while I tried to sleep. (Note to the squeamish: I had stuffed both the duvet cover and the bedspread in the washer with an obscene quantity of detergent, and was using the alternate bedspread that is stored in the office closet for use by inebriated guests who ‘sleep it off’ on the futon.) I would still be fuming at the dogs now, were it not for their adorable tendency to follow me around the apartment and sleep at my feet. It took me twenty-one years, but I finally bought myself a pair of acolytes.
