Guilty Pleasures
One of the reasons I am sure that Beau and I were meant for each other is that we are both incredibly, severely, irrevocably, creatures of habit. I like things to go in a certain order, he also enjoys the comforts of things remaining predictable and in a pattern easy on the mind. Sometimes he does try and revv up the schedule a little, or should I say, excessively early, but he is for the most part and incredibly predictable animal. Rather like myself. But you know, sometimes once in a blue moon I have to pee in the middle of the night, so why shouldn’t he also be able to stick his cold wet nose into my eye to ask to be let out at 3:47 a.m. four nights in a row during mid-term week? It’s only fair.
The alarm goes off at 7:15 a.m. most mornings, which in reality is actually 6:59 a.m., but in that hazy sleepy state reminiscent of alcohol overload or hours of memorizing parasites of veterinary importance, my brain says, “SHIT! SHIT! YOU ARE LATE, GET UP! getupgetupgetupgetupgetupgetup!!!!11!!!111!” So we scramble out of bed and, first things first, Beau gets to go outside to potty and then he gets his breakfast. Nevermind the fact that it’s gotten rather chilly in the mornings here - not arctic or anything, but I probably should be wearing more than a slight pair of knickers, even they even qualify for that much - and my stomach is growling and my body still smells of yesterday - Beau is No. 1 in not just my book, but that of the Order Of The Universe, and thus he gets his 1/2 cup kibble, 1/5 can beef breakfast and a little purple 0.6 mg Levothyroxine. At least my hair looks awesome because for some reason, I can sleep with my bobby pins and it still looks the same in the morning. Weird, I know.
After my shower it’s time for my coffee (a latte really, thank god for personal espresso machines) and my breakfast. And a gummy vitamin (the person who invented those should get a nobel prize for nutrition-not-the-size-of-a-gd-horse-pill). And then it’s time for guilty pleasure number one. Beau is asleep in his bed again, probably dozing in a happy food coma with his empty bladder, and I switch on the morning news (CBS, it’s all I can get over the rabbit ears and it’s in Hi-Def) and down my cereal or oatmeal or muffin, and then for the next 20 minutes I watch the news and sip my coffee. I cannot express in words how delightful this little morning ritual is. I feel so guiltily sinfully happy as I smell the decadant hazelnut aroma and taste a hint of cinnamon with each sip. And my house is always cold in the mornings so it’s a good way to warm up, to get the blood flowing again. Not to mention that without my morning latte - parasitology is seriously just not going to happen at 9 a.m.
Guilty Pleasure Number Two is when I get home. I finally got Beau to stop playing the washboard on my laundry room door as soon as he hears the garage door go up (don’t ask how, one day he just stopped), and he waits patiently. He doesn’t wag his tail, he doesn’t perk his ears (I can see him through the slats). As soon as I call out to him, his ears go up, as soon as I open the door, he takes one moment to make sure it’s me, and then he bursts into his octopus/worm dog act and can no longer contain his excitement. He follows me around, he high-fives me, he won’t let me do anything else, not even pee in privacy, until he gets a satisfactory amount of scratching, patting, hearty thumps on the chest and of course, a cookie for going out side and going potty. And of course, this happens every day, everytime I come home in fact. It’s habit.
Guilty pleasure number three is part of the routine of emergency situations. Examples of emergency situations include: Loud noise in the dark of night, thunderstorm in the dark of night, house creaking in the dark of night and noseeums in the dark of night. I wake up in the dark, disoriented, probably from a good dream, and Beau is staring wild eyed at the foot of my bed, directly at me as if he can see through my soul. Or he’s pacing in and out of the kitchen, his toes clickety-clacking on the laminate. Every time he comes in to my room, he shoves a wet nose onto the most accessible piece of my body (this is why I sleep with the covers over my head now mostly) and then proceeds to saunter slowly around the kitchen and back. The only way to get him to cease and desist such irritating behavior is to throw open the sheets and pat the mattress. Usually before I can say, “up!” he’s there, pupils like saucers and ears flat on the back of his head with a tucked tail, curling up into the smallest possible ball that he can make right in the crook of my body. Beau has technically been banned from the bed since we moved - white comforter cover and all that I have now - but on these nights when he can’t sleep, and by proxy also does not allow me to sleep (misery loves company I suppose) - he’s under the covers with me and I once again get the great pleasure of snuggling up close to him. Usually I have to go turn the A/C down a degree or two though in order to keep his hot furry body from cooking me slowly like a crockpot.
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He likes boy dogs, which might explain it
I always see these movies on Netflix about romance and relationships, and like many females my age, I fall in to the trap and put them in my queue and wait for them to arrive. And I don’t know if when they are formatted in blu-ray not only is the picture clearer but the movie is somehow sadder, but I spent a good amount of time sniffling and leaking fluid from both my eyes and nose yesterday while watching the world’s saddest movie (that I have seen yet), P.S. I Love You. Nothing like a real tear-jerker about the fantasy of passionate forever love and romance right before going to the dog park. I thought about waiting a little while after it was over to allow that red irritated look of my eyes go away, but the dogs were adamant and we went to the park, me looking like I just had the worst day of my life.
And while I was watching this movie, Beau was snuggling right up next to me, sniffing my face and licking off my tears (mmm salty). Faye was on her back, completely non-committal, but there was Beau, my bubba, right there in my lap close by where I needed him to be. He only tried to eat the Kleenexes once this time, at least. This is what dogs are for after all. I would be so embarrassed to watch a sad movie in front of Steven (my own family too) and cry my eyes out, it’s just too mortifying to let other people see you sad about things that aren’t even real and people who don’t actually exist. But Beau doesn’t care, in fact, he loves it because it’s about the only time he’s allowed to snuggle up on the couch with me, instead of dozing on the floor. He loves chick flicks for this very reason - he gets special privileges and two hours of gentle petting and hugging while he keeps his eyes closed and takes a relaxing nap in my lap. Of course, he does like boy dogs and has many boyfriends at the park, which could possibly explain this behavior.
Good thing for Beau, all the movies in my queue right now are chick flicks, so the snuggling won’t let up any time soon.
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AKA: You smell weird and eeew, mom, she’s touching me!
