My dogs won't let me play hooky

My dogs won't let me play hooky.

I really wanted to today, for at least an hour or so. I deserved it; Friday I stayed at the office until after 7 p.m. working with an online student who was having a problem with my class.

And I needed it. I didn't sleep well last night for reasons I don't know. My day yesterday was a pretty normal Sunday: worked on the computer until around noon; cleaned up and went to lunch where I read a couple of chapters of a fascinating book one of my former students left me in appreciation for my class; an hour or so at the grocery store. It diverged a little after that because instead of dropping in on the former in-laws as I have been doing for several months now, I came home to a phone call from one of their daughters laying out the plans for what could be the weirdest (but maybe the neatest) funeral I've ever attended.

About the time I finished off a note to the kids to update them on their grandfather's deteriorating condition, a friend from my high-school days showed up on the front porch to show me how to take care of a couple of problems with windows. Long story about how Jim reappeared in my life, but nice to see him again and catch up on his life, his wife, and the fact that we both seem to have turned out okay, in spite of being liberals in central Texas.

I fiddled on the computer a while before bed, but I wasn't terribly sleepy, so I did the Sunday crossword and snuggled under the covers. And my eyes flew open.

I had taken a couple of honest-to-goodness pseudophedrine tablets earlier in the day (in hopes that its stronger formula than the standard knock-off now easily available would help me breathe better), but I don't know of pseudophedrine keeping anyone awake.

Around 4 a.m., I got up and let the Alpha Bitch out to try to keep her from waking me once I finally dropped off, and when the alarm went off at 6:30, I let her out and left the door open so she and the cat and Bubba could come and go without me.

Bubba's routine is to come downstairs when Number One Son gets up around 7:30, and he's used to checking on me in my lounger, where I'm usually already settled into getting the day's work done—yes, even on weekends. I don't know whether he went out before he came to the bedroom to check on me, but before 7:45 I was well aware of his flat-footed presence next to my face: he was happily sloshing me off with his washrag tongue as if to tell me it was time to get up.

Alpha Bitch was right beside him, forepaws up on the bed, not so much as if they wanted to hop in bed with me as to let me know they thought I needed to get up.

Even when he wasn't licking me, Bubba was hovering over me, warm breath on my face to let me know he wasn't about to leave. I reminded them that the door was open and they didn't need me to go out.

I finally gave in—still not yet 8 a.m.—and dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen. Bubba and Alpha stood guard at the refrigerator until I dragged out the milk and got out my morning vitamins.

I showed them the door and asked if they wanted to go out, but they seemed to be not interested. Instead, they went to the door to the dining room, and I followed on the way to my chair.

As soon as they had corralled me into the right direction, Alpha took up her post on the floor in front of me and Bubba draped himself across his favorite chair. They both went immediately to sleep.

Which was okay, apparently, as long as they were sure I wasn't playing hooky!