![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
DAYLIGHT SAVINGS
I was paranoid last night that I'd oversleep this morning so I set an alarm clock to wake me and made sure the automatic coffee maker would be on the job an hour earlier. Normally, I wake between 6.30 and 7 am, when I hear the sounds of two greyhounds politely stretching and yawning because it's time to get up. They never bark or intrude on my sleep, but once a mother always a mother, I'm programmed by nature to hear the tiniest sound of my “child” in distress – sometimes before it actually occurs. They are usually tolerant enough to allow me to fetch the paper and read it as I drink my coffee before I get up and take them out. But on Sundays, I can't sleep in or read the paper. I need to pick up a lady from the hospice by 9.30 to go to church. (People at the end of their lives, I've found, don't sleep late. They don't want to waste time – a lesson to lazy me.)
So I got up before the dogs this time, which both puzzled and pleased them. I like to see what the weather's going to be like before I'm ready to shower and dress, so I often carry my coffee out of the bedroom into the living room where I stare out the big sliding doors leading to the balcony. My fourth floor condo unit faces due east, and often in winter I'm in time to see the sun rise over the shoulder of Saddleback Mountain down in Orange County. This morning I faced a thick wall of grey fog that had slithered inland overnight. There's something quite mystical about fog that hides the mundane world from our eyes and suggests other realities might be possible. Fog (smog, in London when I was growing up, but still magical) is probably one of the factors that sorts children out from those who are going to grow up to be bricklayers to those who want to design the palace of Ozymandias. I wouldn't want to live somewhere if fog, or at least mist, wasn't available occasionally to rescue my imagination from the ordeals of daily living.
I finished my coffee, leashed the dogs and set out. At ground level, I could see several blocks ahead, the fog bank being several feet off the ground. The cool air energizes us, and we walk for about two miles before returning home. I love this time of day, before the residents of the houses we pass are awake. But their dogs are, barking warning to my dogs not to trespass on their lawns, even if I'm ready to scoop up the evidence in my trusty plastic bag. How do they know a dog is passing by when they're inside? Since dogs don't seem to bark at humans, only other dogs, I've come to the conclusion that good advice to burglars – if I'm ever desperate enough to write a burglary manual – would be: Leave your pooch at home when you set out with nefarious purposes. Greyhounds, of course, never bother to reply to this vocal harassment.
There's a hierarchy among dog owners and their dogs that we meet on these walks. The greys are condescending to other dogs their size, putting up with the inevitable routines of sniffing – unless they're pitbulls, at which time I avoid the issue and cross the road. They don't like little dogs, chihuahuas and mini whatsits, usually turning to me with expressions that seem to say, “The rabbits we used to chase at the track never yapped at us!” But if we chance to meet another of the neighborhood greyhounds – Oh joy! Annie is desperately in love with a grey named Armstrong; she won't pass his house until she's absolutely certain he's not there and won't come out to greet her. Sometimes this'll take a couple of minutes to persuade her to move on. They know their own breed and prefer their company; whether this comes from the days at the track or not, I couldn't say.
By the time we got back home this morning, the fog was lifting and the sun came poking through. The greys decided to skip breakfast – not unusual behavior for them – and go take a nap. Oh – and I was in time to pick up the lady and get to church before the service started.
So I got up before the dogs this time, which both puzzled and pleased them. I like to see what the weather's going to be like before I'm ready to shower and dress, so I often carry my coffee out of the bedroom into the living room where I stare out the big sliding doors leading to the balcony. My fourth floor condo unit faces due east, and often in winter I'm in time to see the sun rise over the shoulder of Saddleback Mountain down in Orange County. This morning I faced a thick wall of grey fog that had slithered inland overnight. There's something quite mystical about fog that hides the mundane world from our eyes and suggests other realities might be possible. Fog (smog, in London when I was growing up, but still magical) is probably one of the factors that sorts children out from those who are going to grow up to be bricklayers to those who want to design the palace of Ozymandias. I wouldn't want to live somewhere if fog, or at least mist, wasn't available occasionally to rescue my imagination from the ordeals of daily living.
I finished my coffee, leashed the dogs and set out. At ground level, I could see several blocks ahead, the fog bank being several feet off the ground. The cool air energizes us, and we walk for about two miles before returning home. I love this time of day, before the residents of the houses we pass are awake. But their dogs are, barking warning to my dogs not to trespass on their lawns, even if I'm ready to scoop up the evidence in my trusty plastic bag. How do they know a dog is passing by when they're inside? Since dogs don't seem to bark at humans, only other dogs, I've come to the conclusion that good advice to burglars – if I'm ever desperate enough to write a burglary manual – would be: Leave your pooch at home when you set out with nefarious purposes. Greyhounds, of course, never bother to reply to this vocal harassment.
There's a hierarchy among dog owners and their dogs that we meet on these walks. The greys are condescending to other dogs their size, putting up with the inevitable routines of sniffing – unless they're pitbulls, at which time I avoid the issue and cross the road. They don't like little dogs, chihuahuas and mini whatsits, usually turning to me with expressions that seem to say, “The rabbits we used to chase at the track never yapped at us!” But if we chance to meet another of the neighborhood greyhounds – Oh joy! Annie is desperately in love with a grey named Armstrong; she won't pass his house until she's absolutely certain he's not there and won't come out to greet her. Sometimes this'll take a couple of minutes to persuade her to move on. They know their own breed and prefer their company; whether this comes from the days at the track or not, I couldn't say.
By the time we got back home this morning, the fog was lifting and the sun came poking through. The greys decided to skip breakfast – not unusual behavior for them – and go take a nap. Oh – and I was in time to pick up the lady and get to church before the service started.
Comments