Do you know what time it is right now? Not the time you are reading this, but the time, I, a past version of myself, wrote what you are now reading: 4:30 AM. I swear to you I haven’t slept in on a Saturday in I don’t even know how long. This isn’t a humble brag about how to win the day before 5 AM. By no means is this one of those nauseating self-help pieces that tells you to rise from your slumber like a Fortune 500 CEO and commence your light therapy routine, followed by a round of crunches, push-ups, and ending with a green smoothie. Not even close.
Instead, it’s a story about me and my dog and our ongoing Saturday morning tradition of waking at 2:30 AM. Because that’s when I rose from sleep today. I waited two hours to write this, but I have indeed been up hours before when my dog, Motzie, bless her sixteen year old soul, dropped a deuce in the house and felt the need to wake me—which I appreciate because that could’ve been a disaster otherwise.
Now, before anyone starts clutching their pearls and thinks, “Ew, gross, your dog went to the bathroom in the house,” let me clarify: she’s sixteen. (Sh)It happens. It’s part of the aging process. Adult diapers and incontinence are a thing for aging humans, too, right? Until this past year, she’s probably been the greatest dog in the history of dogs when it comes to not using the bathroom in the house. She’s held it in until being let out since she was a pup. Quite an amazing feat in my opinion.
I remember her first night with us back in 2008. My wife Allison, then girlfriend, and I were living in our apartment on Pantops. Sinful, I know. Beautiful section of the city to take up residence. Pain in the absolute a-double-s to drive in the morning, noon, and anywhere between the hours of 3-6 PM. One road in, one road out. But that’s another story. Tall ceilings. White carpet. Nice place. Allison, always the planner, set an alarm for 2 AM the first night. I asked her why.
“To let the dog out so she doesn’t have an accident. We can take turns each night,” she said. She was ready to commit to a regimented 2 AM wake-up call for the foreseeable future and I was to serve as her tag-team partner.
But me? I was less enthusiastic. “If we start this now, we’re setting a precedent and an expectation,” I said. Something to that effect at least. It was more along the lines of, “Hell no, I’m not waking at 2 AM. She’s gonna have to hold it.”
And hold it she did. For fifteen years, she was a fortress of bladder and bowel control. But those days are over. It’s year sixteen going on seventeen, and accidents happen. It’s part of life now. The good news is she absolutely despises being near those accidents. Her mobility isn’t what it used to be, so I’m cool with her alerts. Beats her accidentally plopping down in it later if her hips give out.
The downside, at least for me, is that once I’m up, I’m up. There’s no sliding back into a restful sleep, especially on Saturdays. Why Saturdays? I wish I knew. But here I am again, at 4:30 AM, wide awake now for two hours, writing about my four legged gal pal who appears to be chasing squirrels in her sleep. She’s at my feet as I type this.
Seeing your once spry dog age before your eyes is different. I can’t help but be reminded of when I was a newly minted dad of a human being. Caring for an older dog comes with a similar territory as taking care of an infant or toddler.
Mobility is one. She’s less mobile now because of arthritis. She can still walk. A bit clumsily now, sure, but as long as you don’t treat her like a dependent, incapable old lady, she’ll surprise you. But her running days are over. She’ll catch a burst occasionally, but the bursts are shorter. She’s good on flat surfaces yet struggles with inclines, of which our yard is mostly. Her determination to conquer a hill is still there, but sometimes I have to pick her up when her legs give out on her.
Like a colicky baby that needs a good burping, she gets gassy and I have to lend her an assist sometimes. Otherwise, she’ll fuss. I remember those days with my own children. Looking at you Annabelle. So I give her a few taps on the side and she lets her rip—and they are impressive.
As it is with a bright-eyed baby, she likes nothing more than being around her family. We’re her pack. She’s always been like this, but nowadays, it’s more as it once was when she was a puppy, brand new to the world. The separation anxiety is real. She doesn’t like being out of our sight. Wherever we are, she wants to be. Gotta be near mama or daddy.
Granted, she doesn’t sleep on top of my head at night anymore. She did that her entire life until recently. Took up my entire pillow. Pressed her belly against my head and wrapped her paws around my shoulders. We had to cut that out of the nightly routine. That would be, eh, not a good idea, present day.
“What’s that in my hair?”
Early Saturday mornings have become an impromptu tradition of ours. Of course, unlike me, my dog falls right back to sleep. So I sit here with her by my feet and type away until she, and the rest of our household, wakes up. I guess only so many days and years could pass before the 2 AM wake-up call caught up with me. It’s not that bad though. Just me and the dog. Just me and the dog.
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