Our dog, 12 years old and slightly neurotic, wakes us up on Saturday mornings. The work week alarm gets turned off on Friday nights, so theoretically we can ‘sleep in.’ Ike, the aforementioned yellow Lab, subs in for the alarm. He cannot bear the thought, apparently, that we are snuggled in for a good morning snooze, leaving him comfortably, but unfortunately, locked in the laundry room. So he barks. I’ve counted the seconds in between each sharp yap. 10 seconds. max. It’s enough to get one of us out of bed, every dang time. To be fair, maybe his ‘old man’ bladder really does pain him a bit. I think not. He just needs his pack. We’re it. Once we’re assembled in the same space, Ike heads for his favorite spot under the kitchen table, content. No matter that it’s still dark outside and sleeping was still possible. Companionship trumps the bed. Everybody, up!
This morning, Jeff was the one to put his feet on the floor first. He lets me sleep a bit more on Saturdays. It’s a little thing. But it shows his big heart for me. This morning, like the extra sleep time wasn’t enough of a treat, he made a trip to the donut store. And predictably, strong, wonderful coffee waited in the pot for the later early riser. A few leaves are falling this morning, and the weatherman and my donut-fetching husband confirm a lovely fall chill in the morning air. Nothing extraordinary about the Saturday morning. Just little things. “The thump of a sleepy dog’s tail on the kitchen floor.” Coffee. Donuts. Time together. The promise of the day. The comfort of love. Little things, indeed.