I long for the kind of morning when I can sleep in. This is mildly inconvenient, because I live with a Doberman who sometimes appears to know exactly when it’s four o’clock. I don’t know how he knows. I would prefer that he develop an interest in a different number.
Before Whiskey, I often chose to get up at three or four in the morning. I’d spend time in the Word, do my devotions, and have green tea. I liked having that time. The important detail, which I feel deserves some emphasis, is that I was the one choosing it.
Then Whiskey became involved in the scheduling. A nudge at four in the morning has a different feel from deciding for yourself that you’re ready to get up. The clock can say the same thing, but I’m much less enthusiastic when someone else has made the decision. Especially someone who doesn’t have to consider what I need to do with the rest of the day.
I’ve wondered about noises. I’ve tried changing bedtime and feeding arrangements, trying to work out what would help. At one point I even wondered whether he might be afraid of the dark. It’s a curious thought to have about a Doberman, but early mornings can make a person willing to consider a wide range of explanations.
There have also been nights with barking at one and again at four. Those are harder to turn into a charming dog story when I’m tired. Living with MS gives me enough reasons to pay attention to how I’m feeling without adding a four-legged experiment in interrupted sleep.
I love him. I also want to sleep. I don’t find those feelings especially difficult to reconcile, although he may have questions about my priorities.
What catches me is the comparison with my old mornings. I was awake early then, too. But I had chosen a quiet beginning, and the quiet was part of what I wanted. I could spend that time with God before turning toward everything else. Now I can find myself awake at the same hour and wishing for the morning I used to have.
I’m still trying to work out what Whiskey needs. I’m also trying to admit what I miss without feeling unkind for missing it. A little choice. A little quiet. The chance to begin the day before someone needs something from me.
There’s affection in this story, and a fair amount of fatigue. Some mornings the humor is easier to find after I’ve been awake a while. I can be glad he’s here and hope very sincerely that tomorrow he discovers the pleasure of sleeping late.
When I think about those early devotions and that cup of tea, I realize I don’t necessarily need a late morning. I’d just like a little of the morning to feel like mine again.