Who's Poo?? Why...Moo's Poo...That's Who's Poo...July 6, 1999

Who's Poo?? Why...Moo's Poo...That's Who's Poo...July 6, 1999

Dawn broke. The sun rose slowly to its hues of gold, yellow, red, violet, and blue. It was breathtaking. I have only one being to thank for the early morning rise and subsequent awe in nature's splendor - Moo.

Blessed Moo, thirteen weeks old now, has discovered that she can jump up onto the bed. Being a pup, she has all the energy of a generating station, but the grace of a baby elephant. She does not merely hop onto the bed, she leaps. Nor does she follow Reekie's lead and snuggle down into the warmth of the foot of the bed. No, she is up, raring to go, wants to play, and kisses me awake. With that mission accomplished, she proceeds to rouse Reekie out of a similar blissful slumber, and the two decide it is time for another lesson in play-fighting. All this at the crack of dawn, all this at the foot of my bed, and all this while I was counting on another couple hours sleep.

Knowing that if I remain in bed I may suffer accidental injury in the form of a scratch, or, a baby tooth puncture, I haul my tired, aching, half-asleep carcass out of the cozy envelope of my waterbed. Hoping to let the beasts out quickly and return to that coziness, I throw on some clothes decent enough to go outside in case I have to go running after one of them, and head downstairs.

There, waiting for me, were two piles of poo, right in the middle of the livingroom carpet. I did not have to wonder for very long who's poo it was. Reekie has been trained for a long time, and the cats had a relatively clean litter box. It was Moo's poo, that's who's poo, I knew. So much for getting back to bed quickly. I will be so joyous when she is trained.

Futile as it may have been (for Moo at least), I let the dogs out and put on a pot of coffee. Yes, a pot; it was going to be a long day.

After dozing off on the couch, I woke up again, poured a cup of now baked coffee, and waited. I waited as I have waited for weeks now. I waited for the mailman to bring my mail. After hearing the usual clomp, clomp, clomp of work boots, the creeeeek of the mailbox opening, and the clang of it shutting, I ran to the door and opened the symbol of my livlyhood. I worked myself up over...

...an alumni magazine from the university I went to, and a bill from my stationery supply company.

Again, as for weeks now, no large cheque from my major contractor. Feeling mixed emotions of defeat, anger, and sullenness, I bathed and headed out of town to pick up the small cheque made up for me yesterday by another organization that contracts me. After depositing it, there was little left that was not eaten up by past bill payments, but enough to get around and work for the day.

In the process of this morning's vaudeville, slapstick performance, I did some laundry. I hate doing laundry, but I hate even more being asked by clients who think they know it all, "Didn't you wear that the other day?". Once home from banking, I hung the laundry out to dry, excited about being able to smell it when it was done.

I do not know just how it happens, but the combination of fresh air and sunshine on drying clothes makes the most pleasant smell. I do laundry on nice days just to be able to revel in the scent for just a little while. Not only is it asthetically pleasing, but it conjures childhood images of crawling between fresh, clean, crisp, sundried sheets that Mom spent all day laundering. I remember how the smell would envelop me in a cocoon, and last until I drifted off to sleep. I remember it was a night I would never give my parents a hassle going to bed. As simple a thing as sundried clothing is, I know that it always makes for a better day. Given the financial issues I continue to struggle with, I will take all the pleasantries I can get.

Late this afternoon, I pulled the clothing off the line. I buried my nose deep, and smelled, and smelled, and smelled, remembering warm, summer nights drifting off to sleep, with tomorrow being full of possibility.

...Blessed Be