My eyes flicker.
My eyes open.
I fumble for slippers and a robe.
I trip down the stairs with the left foot in the right slipper.
My poor dog. He must be dying for a pee.
I force the key into the Fort Knox security gate (anti-Zombie apocalypse and installed as coronavirus hit).
I wrench it open.
The dog careens out.
Comes back in.
That was it.
In. Out. In.
I went back to bed.
4am, I go through the whole charade again.
Then I’m hit with an epiphany.
This is new.
Two weeks ago, my mother’s dog came to spend the night.
At the witching hour he barked. And I let him out.
And then he did it again. And I let him out.
At some point, he (Angus), and Charlie (mine) clearly had a confab about their people and their failings. I think there might have been a bet. Something along the lines of, “I bet you a bone that I can teach my person to get up in the middle of the night for no reason whatsoever.”
That goofy, happy face that I translated as, “Oh good, I’m so excited she’s going to let me out to pee!” actually means, “Check this out. I can make this idiot woman get up and open the door whenever I bark. I’ll wait until she’s just fallen asleep and… WOOF! I could do this all night.”
Yeah, and he even got the cats to watch.
There is nothing more humiliating than the cat watching you with utter disdain. I shrank in his estimation to the size of a smallish pellet of salmon-flavoured gourmet cat food.
I feel ashamed.
And lied to.
Turns out an old dog can teach this old bitch new tricks.