It's early. That goes without saying, but he'll say it anyway. It might be as early as four a.m., if Daddy's working at 6 that morning. It's 5:00 if he works at seven. And it's never later than 5:30 because that's when Mommy has to get up.
Daddy has probably been awake for three minutes to half an hour when the beepbeepbeep of the alarm shatters the predawn tranquility. He'll extricate himself from the tangle of covers and dogs--the Tux reclining regally at the top of the bed between Mommy and Daddy, the Peach buried deep under Daddy's covers. (How she breathes down there Daddy will never know, but that's her preferred sleeping position, glommed to the Daddy with her butt aimed strategically at his nostrils. Peach-farts, by the way, do not smell like peaches.)
Now, the shower. A critical part of the morning here: the Shower is the halfway point between Bed and World. The main point of the Shower, besides the sluicing away of night-time funk, is the gradual dawning of consciousness.
There are certain rules. It must be dark. To turn a light on at this stage of unwakefulness could be dangerous: Daddy's eyes might burn out. It must be hot. A cold shower will waken the Daddy, to be sure, but he'll be in a foul mood that will last for hours. No, the idea here is to create a pea-soup fog in the bathroom. We have a fan in there that's meant for a room three times the size. This is because Daddy has set off the smoke detector from the fog of his showers.
Daddy stands under the spray like a cow, shaving if he must--he has never figured out the link between facial hair and job performance, but apparently there is one--and attending to other bits of hygiene.
Then the donning of the clothes, which is accomplished with much moaning and groaning and creaking of limbs, being as Daddy is not 40, as his birth certificate claims, but in fact closer to eighty and as flexible as your average iron bar,
Now we Go Downstairs. Peach is her Daddy's dog: she's bleary-eyed and dopey in the morning, searching only for the couch so she can embark on the Second Sleep. Tux, by contrast, has rocketed down the stairs, and he's prancing like a puppy down there, claws clittering madly on the laminate, awaiting his Things.
Tux gets two Things in the morning, and woe unto Daddy if he forgets either. First is the Cheese: a processed cheese slice that totally makes our dog's day. If the Georgia-Peach is awake enough (rare), she will accept part of Tux's cheese--occasionally, our B.B.-cat will meow for her share as well, and it's cute as hell to see them all sitting in a line in the kitchen, awaiting the Cheese. Tux usually has to be told "Gentle", whereas Peach will take her cheese in exactly the same way an ATM takes your card. zzzzzut!
Next: the Biscuit. This is a standard dog cookie, but it's up there with Cheese, Car-Rides, and Bedtime as far as our Tux is concerned, and it's got about a tenth as much appeal as one Georgia-Ball to our Peach. Meaning Tux will prance his way around until he gets his Biscuit, and Peach will blearily open one eye, slither off the couch and trudge over to the Daddy, smacking her lips softly and accepting the Biscuit with her customary grace.
Things given, the Tux then embarks on his Second Sleep, which might be awfully short if Tux's Mommy is about to Come Downstairs. Tux, you must understand, lives for his Mommy. The Things are about the only Things that can coerce the Tux to be on a different floor of the house.
Daddy, meanwhile, has set the Keurig a-burblin'. producing two coffees for him and one for the Mommy (who may or may not require a second coffee later on, after Silly Buggers). He will think about eating breakfast, but probably won't just yet. Instead, he'll sit and drink his coffee, checking the Net for all the news that dared to happen while he was sleeping.
By the time this is done, Mommy has been downstairs a while. The TV is, of course, on. Just for Laughs is chuckling away. If the comedians suck on this particular morning, Mommy will like as not have her Shower early. And Daddy's bowels will commence growling.
Daddy's Daddy calls them steaming stools. They are oddly timed to coincide with Mommy's showers. The humidity left over from Daddy's saunashower combines with the water vapour from Mommy's, creating the perfect environment for the perpetuation of scatological horrors on an all-too-suspecting Mommy. Daddy will sit on his throne, reading the Social Studies page of the Globe and Mail to the Mommy, almost as if the air hadn't been replaced by something best not smelled or indeed thought of. The best part is, with Mommy in the shower, Daddy can't even flush....
Many laughs are shared and choked over, then Mommy gets out of her Shower and goes to get dressed and it's time for Silly Buggers. Tux, of course, knows this, just as he knows about the Things. He's ensconced on the bed, waiting.
Silly Buggers, aka Hide-the-Tux-Face, is a simple game, but endlessly entertaining. The idea here is to take a sheet and put it over Tux's face. He will then roll on his back and paw madly at the sheet, tangling himself up and grunting like a mushroom. (What's that? You've never heard a grunting mushroom? It sounds just like our Tux playing Silly Buggers.)
If you don't make the first move, like as not Tux will burrow under the sheets himself, nosing them up until he can roll in them and be a Silly Bugger. He will expect, at some point, the rubbing of the Tummy-On-The-Tux, which will change his mushroom grunting in to something decidedly more sensual and. quite frankly, disturbing. Peach will occasionally launch sorties at the hidden Tux-Face, provoking even more hilarity. The sheets will be in total disarray when this game is over.
Back Downstairs we go, to breakfast...then for the thing that the Peach has been waiting for all morning (yes, even through her Second Sleep)...Georgia-Ball!
Tux will Go Outside to Get-The-Poop-Out-Of-The-Tux. Even this is fun to watch because our Tux refuses to poop in one place like a normal dog. He'll go into a poop-squat and then kind of shimmy-jog over half the yard. Weird dog.
Georgia will grab her Georgia-Ball (or, if she can't remember where she had it last -- rare -- the Red-Ball will do in a pinch) and drop it in front of the Daddy. Daddy is equipped with a Glove because the Ball will very shortly be -- what did they call it in the eighties-- grodie with Peach-drool and yard-mud. He will throw. The Peach will retrieve. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. At some point, halfway through the game, Peach will suddenly stop halfway back to the Daddy, ball in mouth, and excrete. Copiously. A new lake will form or a new mountain will arise.
As this game is going on, Tux will watch patiently. He will herd the B.B.-cat back In The House if she dares to poke a paw out on the deck. And th---
SQUIRREL!!!
Tux has shot across the yard and is trying to climb a tree. Georgia, ball still clenched firmly in her jaws, will bark and shake her head violently, sounding like a drunk man vomiting all over himself, and she'll give chase.
Tux has never caught the Squirrel. He knows the Squirrel's House -- our shed -- as opposed to Tux's House, and he will sometimes stand at the Squirrel's House door and stare longingly, exactly the way Peach stares at her Georgia-Ball all day every day.
Daddy is convinced the Peach is telepathic. If Daddy so much as thinks about going In The House, Peach will somehow sense this and come to a complete standstill in the yard, resembling either a cow or Daddy in a Shower. Daddy will then have to tell the Peach to come In The House, and she always comes, albeit reluctantly.
It's time for Daddy to Go Bye-Bye. He loves the Mommy dearly and he makes sure to remind her of this, in case she has forgotten in her sleep. And then he goes, and the countdown to Bedtime starts.
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