Dog Days of Summer

Mr. GG is in the doghouse. Metaphorically speaking. All was well in my life till this morning. He got up, made coffee, ironed his shirt, came into the bedroom and kissed me goodbye as I lay snuggled up in my baby blue, pinstriped sheets. I rolled over, fell back asleep and into dreams of my flatiron turning into a poisonous snake, and then rescuing a baby who turned out to have 3 blue eyes (eek. I must have some unexamined issues – I mean the hair thing is completely understandable, but maybe I should stop reading supernatural books before I fall asleep. Three blue eyes? Or maybe it was the shrimp biriyani last night).

I woke to a shriek. Not mine. It was a feline yowl of distress. I rolled out of bed and Furrbutt came running in, trembling. Uh-oh. I skidded into the kitchen to find a gigantic multicolored Samoyed in the middle of the room. Or maybe it was a wolf. Its’ head came up to my waist. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit”, I thought. I gingerly escorted him out the OPEN SLIDER DOOR, onto the patio, where I found the back gate open, and both doors to the garage open!! Hello!!! Vulnerable woman completely exposed to any deranged psychopath or wolf who wanders in off the street. Man, that doused my sense of security and of being cherished by a man who made me coffee and kissed me goodbye. My home, my bastion of sanctuary and refuge could be violated by any wasp, psycho killer, or wolf who wandered by. Can we say, adrenaline rush? Can we, Mr. GG?

Okay, I shuttle the wolf (who was actually kind of friendly), out the gate, close all the doors, and go looking for the felines. I find 2, but Mr. Mittens is MIA. I take a moment to call Mr. GG at work, and express my feelings on the whole situation, telling him that I can’t find Mr. Mittens (Mr. GG’s particular favorite), when I hear plaintive meowing from outside. I drop the phone mid-bitch and wander around in my nightgown calling Mr. Mittens, till I finally see him up on the roof. Good kitty. He heads for the high ground in a disaster. I return to the phone and briefly inform Mr. GG that his ass is saved. But that I do have a few more remarks to direct to him at a later time.

I give the inside cats a can of tuna, and go outside and wait for Mr. Mittens to come down off the roof. Not happening. He got himself up there, and I know he can get himself down. He, however, prefers to hang his head over the roof right over the patio table where I am now drinking coffee and de-stressing, and he yowls nonstop. Eventually, I give up, fetch the tall step ladder and call him over to a lower spot on the roof, where I can effect his rescue.

So. That was my morning. One minute I’m dreaming about freaky blue eyed babies and the next I’m facing down a blue eyed wolf in my kitchen. If I had been in charge of things, I would have turned him into a hot, shape changing, alpha male werewolf, who would be insanely protective of me, and NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, leave me in a house with most of the doors open while I was sleeping. And then Mr. GG would have been sorry. Oh yes, he would have been. In fact, he doesn’t know it yet, but he is going to be sorry when he comes home from work, and we have one of those marital discussions where I calmly point out several things he could have done to prevent this situation. I expect him to get a hang-dog expression (insert ironic, bitter laugh here), but he’ll probably just make a feeble excuse and remind me it all turned out okay.

So, back to my alpha werewolf fantasy. I think I’d have the guy in a kilt when he turns all broody, and hot, and human. In fact, I think he should look like the guy in this Lawson’s Scotch ad.

Right now all the cats are hiding under furniture and recuperating from their traumatic experience. I’m gearing up for my righteous conversation with the man who forgets to protect me from psycho killers. I’ll let you know how it all works out.

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