Did you know there are birds awake at 4:30 in the morning? Well, there are. Cheerful birds. At 4 freakin 30. They sit in the tree outside my window chirping, chirping, chirping. Meanwhile I lie in bed wishing they’d shut the hell up and I could go back to sleep. But, of course, they don’t and I don’t. I just lie there looking at the shadow the leaves make on the muslin curtain as it gently bellows up and back; a breathing canvass. I lie there wondering if the birds are really as happy as they sound. After all, what does a melancholy sparrow sound like?
At 5 o’clock I harrumph my way out of bed and down to the kitchen. By now the chickadees are going at it – chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee and I like them better because it seems to me they have something to say, unlike the frivolous sparrows who are probably just gossiping. I make myself a cup of dark, thick coffee and enjoy a rare moment with the sliding glass door wide open, Sweet William still perched in his bed, safe from escaping, safe from himself. And he’s quiet – another rarity.
There’s a small dog curled up like a furry little comma at my feet -- a tiny, spotty, smelly, skinny dog. She rolls over, begging for love. On her belly there’s a fresh Frankenstein slash of a scar and it reminds me that she’s been through hell. She’s been over bred, neglected, starved and who knows what else. It reminds me that people are capable of incredible cruelty and I wonder what I’d do if I ever met the woman who abused and neglected her. But that’s probably never going to happen and for all my imagined bravado I’d more than likely just turn away, disgusted.
They named her Ya Ya (she’s a Chihuahua mix) at the shelter where she just came from, the good place with the good people who rescued her from her very bad situation. We named her Wren, so she’s now Wrennie Ya Ya. It seems to fit her. Serious, but she wants to be fun. And she will be fun, once she heals up. I won’t go through the list of her maladies but let’s just say that she takes more pills than Elvis. For a while we had medicine bottles and ointments all over the kitchen but then Sara arranged them in a bowl, the bottles and tubes sticking out at angles, arranged like a Harry and David gift basket.
She’s now sleeping at my feet, sprawled trustingly on a floofy bed, snoring. I can’t help but marvel at her resilience – abused for years but still ready to accept love. And a comfortable bed. A belly scratch also goes a long way. So I’d better get busy, there’s lots of belly scratchin’ to make up for.
