For a person who is very often fueled by ardent competitiveness that teeters across the line into fury, for a person who is often angered by some sin of commission or omission, there is little my three-year-old golden retriever Sparkle can do that will get me mad.
While my sleep is often a long-time coming, fitful when it does come and usually more anguish than rest, last night I might as well have been in a sealed casket, deep inside a marble sarcophagus, buried under six feet of well-packed soil.
I was out.
I was clonked-by-Sonny-Liston-out.
Out until 4:40 AM when I heard a sharp bark from Sparkle, who was downstairs nestled in her Taj-Mahal-like crate. I ignored the noise, hoping it was a dream or a party in some bed-bugs' pied-a-terre, or some house-creak I had never heard before.
But, it persisted.
It wasn't a series of staccato barks. It was a one-off about every fifteen seconds. There was a long-enough between each bark that I was hoping Sparks had just had a doggie nightmare and would soon return to her usual nearly-comatose slumber. But then, another bark would come. Pause. And another.
I threw on yesterday's jeans and t-shirt and made my way downstairs to see what was going on, if something were amiss.
I duly threw a too-light jacket on (we had our first frost last night) and took Sparkle for a walk, thinking that something inside of her had to get out of her. But there was no vector in her walk. She sniffed the air, sensed wildlife in the neighbor's hedges or maybe a fox or coyote up from the nearby wetland--which when I was young we called a swamp. Sparkle seemed unphased by it all. In short order I hustled back to our house and put Sparkle back in her crate.
I was back in bed by 5 or 5:15, hoping for another hour or two of rest.
Sparkle had other ideas.
The barking began again, and once again I re-dressed, tsked my way downstairs and, this time with a warmer coat, took her out again, to much the same effect.
There would be no more sleep for me.
So I did what I do, which is I went for a long seaside walk.
The bright stars of a clear cold night were fading and were soon replaced by salmon colored streaks that, rosy-fingered dawn-like, accompanied the chilly sunrise.
I saw the gulls working the coast, looking for piscine detritus or as gulls are not known for the culinary discernment, just slightly-toxic suburban detritus--a pizza crust, a chicken bone, an apple core.
A long way off, I heard the honking of geese. I scanned the brightening sky and finally found them in a lopsided V. Three on one side, thirty-three on the other. "They need to go back to flight school," I murmured to myself. They didn't hear me and continued with their taxi-cab-level ruckus.
By now, it was nearly seven.
The fishermen were walking to the sea, their spindly rods as hopeful as an ingenue. Some early morning runners were starting off on their daily loneliness--the New York City Marathon is eight days away--and if you're running alone at 7AM on a Saturday, there's a decent chance you're running with some purpose.
Twenty-four hours ealier on Friday morning, walking the same route, a young runner stopped and held her phone up to her eye. I stopped to see what she was photographing, and out on a nearby rock, she pointed to the white head (the 'bald' head) of a preening and proud bald eagle. For all the world it was a US quarter turned to life. Maybe the last time before the mid-terms turn the proud amerikkka eagle to the sinister nazi one, or the comic 'Get Smart' one.
No comments:
Post a Comment