Thoughts on Sunday Mornings, Rainy Nights, and Failed Food Experiments

Weekend mornings are quiet. Particularly Sundays. It's the last twenty-four before the return to work and only a small break in a week where every second counts. But it's not filled with To-Do's and errands, or with hanging out and chores. Those are all left up to Saturday. Sunday gets the things I should make time for. The list of things I love to do, but don't do on a day-to-day basis.

 But most of all, it's the early morning where I'm still in bed, wishing to drift to my dreams. Instead, I listen to the quiet murmur of a television in the next room, and the groaning of the dog as he moves to get up. In the quiet of the bedroom hall, I can hear his collar jingle about his neck as he stretches, yawns, scratches, and whines. His loud waking ritual signals he needs to go outside; and then get his breakfast the instant he returns. I know if I pretend to sleep, he won't wake me. He'll rouse whose bed he slept in. Upstairs he'll venture in the yard before returning for his breakfast reward. Thanking whomever fed him, with a burp to the face.