Do you ever wake up in the morning and know it was a mistake before your feet lift off the pillow, or, as you humans would do, swing your legs out of bed? I knew it this morning, but compounded my error by scrambling up on all fours. The sound of the Geezer scratching around in the kitchen was too irresistable.
The old boy was standing at the coffee maker. His prodigious gut hung over his boxer briefs like an overloaded flour sack. He was doing one of his fifty sneeze routines. I don’t know what causes the fit, but he sprays the kitchen with spittle and a moldy smell that’s particularly distasteful to my keen nose. Wouldn’t you know it. When I walked up, he bent over to pet me and said, “Good…Achoo!!, morn…Achoo!!…ing…Achoo…!!Sandy…Achoo, Achoo-choo!!!” Talk about killing someone with kindness. You have no idea how hard it is for me to keep a pleasant expression while enduring one of these stink showers. What a girl has to do for an extra treat. At least, he removed a large portion of the vile fluid when he stroked my fur.
He mumbled something unintelligible and went back to making coffee. The routine is always the same. First thing he does is take the container that holds the beans from the cabinet. He looks at it, struggles with the tight-fitting top, and when the lid pops off, beans fly everywhere. The Geezer then identifies the type coffee that it is, either “Shit, Crap, or F–k.” They all come out of the same container so I’ve never figured out how he separates them.
“Move Sandy,” he rudely commanded as he staggered away to get a broom. He swept them into a neat pile, admitted to his own stupidity for not bringing the dust pan, then pondered whether he should try salvaging the beans. This fell into the same class of decision-making as approving a nuclear strike, doubling the national debt, or sharing your bone with the German Shepard down the street. At last the brain strain was to great and the old boy tossed the beans in the trash while confirming their identity again.
By now I realized the Geezer had lost complete track of his most important morning priorities: to feed me, to escort me on my morning bathroom call, and provide my treat when we return. Despite the increasing pressure in my bladder, I elected to be patient with my ancient buddy. It takes a while to get the steam pressure up in his rusty boiler and the wires connected to the right terminals on his cranium. This morning was extra challenging.
The beans were finally placed in the machine, it ground away, and the water started to gurgle. Geezer always gets hypnotized by the coffee as it trickles into the pot. I walked over to my food dish trying to prompt some cranial activity, but the Geezer was only furnished one track in that brain of his. I whimper a bit and cross my rear legs, a not to gentle hint we need to visit the grass. He looked at me and smiled saying, “Yes it sure does smell good.” Idiot.
The Geezer never pours his coffee until the pot is completely filled and he’s watched the last drop descend into the glass urn. By now my discomfort compounded by listening to the sound of the coffee tinkling into the pot. You know what I mean. I said, “Woof,” ran to the door and waited, looking up at the knob expectantly. That’s not a hint, that’s a command. No Geezer. After a few seconds, I trotted back to see why the delay.
What a horrible sight. There’s the Geezer engaged in trying to clean up spilled coffee from the floor. The old boy has a hard time sopping up because neither his knees nor back are in full functioning condition. His boxer briefs were rotated into a position that presented a view that would terrify Frankenstein.
I tried to help by licking up the brown stuff. Yuk. Double yuk! How can people ruin good water that way? Most humans must be masochistic. The old boy continued to wipe away with a paper towel long after he’d got up all he was gone get. My “woof,” was ignored. I tried another louder whimper. Nothing. I knew what would work. I placed my cold wet nose up near his exposed food exit and I yelled, “I have to pee!” He identified the coffee type again and finally remembered his priorities.
Just in time. I made it to the bottom of the stairs and two steps into the grass. I hate doing that because I normally like to choose my spot carefully. It’s an important part of canine communications you know. But when you got to, well… I know they say Coke is the pause that refreshes, but don’t you believe it.
After all that, the Geezer said apologetically, “Gosh, Sandy, we’ve run out of your canned food and all I have is some dry stuff from the grocery. No Nutro or Science Diet. Sorry.” He smiled. The Sadist. I gagged the stuff down. I hope the next time he eats steak in tastes like Limburger cheese.
I thought I could look forward to an extra treat. Would you believe, when he opened the box, he got this guilty look on his face. A half of a Milk Bone! That was it. I know he felt bad–but, as I slunk away, I gave him my, “Geezer you’re gaining weight again” look to make him feel worse. I went back to my pillow and settled in for a nap. Maybe things will be better the next time I wake up.