Hello 2:22 a.m. How you doin’?
Well, friends, you’re in for a treat because I am actually posting an article TWO DAYS IN A ROW. You read that right.
I’ll give you a minute to catch your breath.
Once again, you can thank my dogs for this. Except instead of being up at 4:17 a.m., I am up at 2:22. It’s pretty sad when you realize you have to get up with the dogs and you note the pitch darkness in the room and begin chanting in your head “Please be at least 4 a.m. Please be at least 4 a.m.” before looking at your phone.
Shit.
Well, I guess nearly four hours of sleep is enough, right?
This morning it was Otto who woke me up with a combination of incredibly not-annoying-at-all barking and licking of the genitals. The usual kicking did not deter him from his task, and soon Herky was up and began whining to go to the bathroom.
I’m sure none of this business has to do with the fact that somehow they (and when I say they I mean Otto because he is the only one tall enough to reach it) managed to wriggle open the drawer where we keep the dog treats and demolish all of the treats and pill pockets I use for Herky. When I got home, the carnage from the ripped up plastic bags was everywhere. Along with some choice piles of diarrhea on the hardwood floors.
Hmmmm, I wonder what in the world could’ve caused that?
So at 2:22 when Herky is whining to go out, and he already has issues going to the bathroom because of that growth-by-his-butthole-thingy (again, that’s the technical term), I know I have to get up.
Now I’m going to take a time out here and address the fact that one of my friends commented yesterday, “Why don’t you wake up your husband?” Well, to be honest, it’s just easier to do it myself. Waking up my husband would take at least 5 minutes of me pushing him and him growling back at me until he finally got up all sleep-angry (“Slangry?” Is that a thing? Like “hangry?” Let’s make it a word, k?). And by that time I still wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep anyway, so it might as well just be me.
So this morning I drug myself to the front door where Herky clearly needed to go out. Please note that on the way to the front door I stepped in two small puddles of pee. This is what happens to Herky when he gets messed up from his growth-by-his-butthole-thingy. It pushes against his bladder and he can’t really control when he goes. Yeah, it’s as fun as it sounds.
However, it is Herky, not Otto, who has this issue, so when I turned on the kitchen light and saw a pool of pee the size of Lake Michigan, I knew Otto was the culprit there. Herky’s body could literally not hold that much urine. So apparently Otto is now adding Sympathy Bladder Control Issues to his list of “Why I Suck for My Parents” list.
Herky is still whining so after I cover Lake Michigan in a half a roll of paper towels to try to soak it up, I go to put Herky on the tie-out. Fortunately, I’m on my toes a little bit more having been burned by Herky two mornings in a row when he snuck out on me. I have his collar in a tight grip when I pull at the rope to find the latch on the end so I can hook him up.
Aaaaaand the tie-out is completely stuck. Wrapped around the broken plastic adirondak chair on the porch, and then down the side of the porch and wrapped around the hedges a few times for good measure. I pull as hard as I can but can’t get the rope loose to find the latch end.
Terrific.
Fortunately this morning I am wearing pants, so I hook up Herky to his leash and take him outside barefoot so he can do his business. And once he’s done I step in dog poop with my bare foot. Of course.
Otto then acts like he has to go out so I take him out but he just wants to run around with me holding on to his leash and I realize there can’t be any pee left in him after cleaning up his masterpiece in the kitchen, so I just take him back inside.
I could try to go back to sleep, but it would not go well. It would involve me cursing my dogs in my head while silently yelling at myself to GO TO SLEEP!!! When I finally fell asleep about 20 minutes before my alarm would go off, I would be bombarded with some sort of anxiety dream involving school and PPE and probably somehow raw hot dogs and dog poop would make it into the story. It just wouldn’t be good.
Whether it’s my generalized anxiety disorder, stress about going back to school in a few weeks and not really having a clue what the heck will happen, or premenopausal symptoms, I seem to just not be able to sleep again once I wake up in the night. And I’m just not going to fight it anymore. Maybe my body just doesn’t require as much sleep as it used to. Who knows. Middle-aged bodies are just plain weird.
Instead, I’ll try to use the time productively, like paying more attention to my blog, while my dogs sleep next to me (because they have no problems falling back asleep) and intermittently let off deadly, eye-watering gas from the drawer of dog treats and the package of hot dog buns they consumed last night (Did I forget to mention the buns?).
May your 3:14 a.m. look much less active than mine.