Creatures of Habit

The weekdays all play out the same.
The alarm goes off before sun-up, and we both give audible groans. Larry starts chuffing in my ear. He has to be let out, and the alarm is his que to stick his wet nose in my face and wag his tail. My wife summons the bravery to get out of bed first and turns on the channel 6 news. She trips over my shoes (that are now very shiny) on her way to bathroom and curses me.

Karen Rogers is giving the local traffic report. She is someone with whom my wife was aquainted with a million years ago, and is a genuinely wonderful person.

I ponder outloud in a gravely voice "Do you think she takes it in the Pooper?"
There's laughter from the bathroom and then the shower starts.

Larry is going crazy, and I need coffee. I need coffee now. I was stupid again last night and up past twelve.

I stumble out of my room in the dark with just my underwear and a morning hardon. My boys are all still asleep and I will wake them soon, in the same order that I always do, saying the same things, scratching their backs, getting them dressed, fed and ready for school. We will fight over getting socks and shoes on, no doubt.

Larry sprints into the backyard, and i return bleary eyed to count measured scoops of grinds and cups of filtered water. It's all part of the ritual.

My cruel mind keeps spotting my cat in the corner of my eye. For six years this is was our daily moment together. The coffee would begin to drip and Pepper would sit on the counter and wait for me to scratch under his chin with both of my hands. Then he would jump to the floor and bump my leg til I fed him. That is how it was and I still dont want to give him up.

I'm mad at him for getting hit. I'm mad at him for being dead. I'm lonely.

I look in the fridge and we are out of milk and creamer. I softly pound my head against the freezer door. Today is going to suck.

Larry barks to be let in.