Seven-thirty, the sound of little paws scraping the sides of a fabric cage jostles me from a dream. I roll out of bed, groggily searching for a sweater, slippers, anything to replace the warmth I just left. 'ZIP', she is free. Her eyes stare up at me as she opens her mouth wide for her classic morning yawn. "You're welcome," I whisper. With a nudge she leaves her warm cage and together we tip-toe from the bedroom where he still sleeps. I feel like a gather, grabbing toys, books, computers, dirty dishes as I pass through the rooms of our home. A collector of things wanted and discarded, filling my arms as I move towards the kitchen with her. Forward momentum screeches to a halt for yet another stretch. Little legs thrust in front, reaching, reaching, her head bends slowly, almost touching the ground and I can't help but envision her bowing before me, declaring her allegiance and thanking me for her freedom.
Downstairs is cold. A room forgotten overnight. In darkness it gathered a chill, waiting for voices to fill it again with sound and warmth. With a flick there is fire. I amaze at how useless we've all become. The miracle of bringing fire to life requires no more skill than the ability to turn on a switch. She returns from outside, her fur damp and cold to the touch and moves immediately to the artificial warmth.
With the flick of yet another button a sizzle begins deep in the machine. Water begins to rumble, and soon there will be coffee. Morning fog lifting, warmth bringing, comforting liquid. We settle into our mourning routine. I to the couch, collecting the blanket around me, creating a barrier between myself and the cold of the leather. She to the chair. Large and billowing, yet she curls into the smallest ball she can, legs tucking, tail folding, losing the image of the awkward puppy and instead resembling a perfect round package. She sleeps.
It is strikingly quiet. For a few hours, sometime only moments, it is just the two of us. Myself, free to create, or become lost in the pages of a book. She to return to dreams. Eventually our bubble will burst. Another will shuffle down the stairs, a voice bringing life to our little cave. Conversation will commence, and the day will begin its dance. As I exist in this morning world I refuse to think of the later. Plans, hopes, decisions, and frets remain tucked away in my pocket. For now, it's simply the two of us, in a world where time stands still.
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