Breakfast Special: “I’ll Have The Sausage Rare.”

 

So. Yesterday was an interesting day here to Loony Land and today has the beginnings to be loony-more. I have been working hard to get the two miniature puppies who share my bed, and control my life, to eat their breakfast at a reasonable time. To me, 5 am is not reasonable, and will be even more unreasonable two weeks from today when 5 am becomes 4 am.

A reasonable breakfast hour would be wheneverthefuck I get up for my breakfast.

I have been ignoring all of the shenanigans pulled by the two half-Chihuahua dogs for the better part of a week. I have been delaying their breakfast schedule by 15 minutes each day in my efforts to get them eating at what will be 7 am when the regular time hits. That’s when the rest of the family sits to eat and I figure, “Why not the entire family?”

The sleeping arrangements in my personal bedroom make this rescheduling difficult. With the Squirt nestled between my legs, she starts with the deep sighs at a quarter to five and then begins resettling herself after five minutes. The resettling is gentle shuffling from one side to the other at first and escalates into her throwing her little sausage body from side-to-side. If you sleep with a snorer you have done some of this frustrated body repositioning yourself.

Historically, I have put up with that shit until 5 am, then get up and feed them. The three of us have been discussing this for several weeks. I have told them that the early breakfast is screwing my internal clock and making me crazier than I need be, and it needs to change. I’m not getting any younger.

On the first morning of rescheduling, I endured the usual pre-five-am bullshit and then the grumbling and growling and cover tugging of the following fifteen minutes. At the moment I decided to give in and feed them, Squirt worked her way from between my legs to stand on my chest. Somehow she managed to put her entire eleven pounds behind each paw as she purposefully stomped rhythmic steps to my face.

This where she usually comes when she wants what she calls “loving” from me. Whether I’m sitting or laying down, she comes sit on my chest with her head nuzzled under my chin. But this time it wasn’t loving on her mind.

“Oh for shit sakes, Squirtie, it’s just fifteen minutes,” I told her as she slammed her head to a rest ON my chin. “And all your stomping has made my kidneys ache.”

“You, Bwana Mooner, are an asshole.”

I laughed at the drama and then told her, I said, “Look, you’ll hardly feel a thing and you might as well get used to it. I’ve made up my mind and that’s that.”

Squirt laughed back at me and said, “We will break you, motherfucker.”

I laughed again because all of that intimidation from a pint-sized puppy is, well, funny.

“Go ahead and laugh, you giant hairy asswipe dog-starving shitheaded ADHD-addled goat fucker. We’ll see who gets used to what.”

How crazy am I that I was so proud of my puppy’s descriptive inventions that I missed the inherent threats in the words? I should have been on high alert when she spoke to me in English only. OK, except for Bwana, but she calls me Bwana all the time.

The tortures and torments have been quite inventive. They’ve played Tug a War with the covers, they stage fake dog fights and Yoda even pretended he was going to shit on my head. I think he was pretending. Yesterday, they dragged their duckies into bed. I get them these Mallard duck squeak toys that are as big as the dogs. They love the “quack” of the ducks and they race around the house playing with them. Yoda likes to bite to his make it quack, but Squirt likes to pound hers on the floor as she runs making it, “Quack, quack and quack,” as she races around.

All the dog slobber has them smelling like dirty ass after a week. And Friday, I was awakened to a smelly duck quacking serenade at 3:15 am.

“It’s not going to work, kiddies,” I told them, so they moved from the foot of the bed to my face.

“Quack, quack, quack….” was the racket, sounding like a flock of crazed ducks taking flight.

Yoda pushed his smelly duck right in my face, I guess in frustration. Since I had sleepy mouth-guard mouth, a taste not dissimilar to smelly Mallard duck toy, I decided to compound their frustration, and I took the proffered toy between my teeth and gave it a “Quack”[.]

OK, first, I will NEVER do that again. Second, I ended up feeding them at 4 am, just after the nausea and vomiting was under control.

Yesterday was somewhat uneventful until they started barking maniacally at a quarter of six. “Progress,” I thought to myself. “Take baby steps, Mooner my boy, and we’ll get through this.”

Last night at bedtime, we were discussing our day today when I told the dogs, “Look, guys, if you can wait until 6 am to eat, I’ll take everybody fishing and then we’ll make some liver ice cream.” They love them some liver ice cream.

“No… fucking… way,” was Squirt’s response. “We eat at 5 O’clock, shithead, and not one minute later.”

“We’ll see about that, little lady. No go to the bathroom and suck on the Ivory soap for two minutes. You have gotten quite a potty mouth on you.”

She grumbled angrily, something about just how sorry I was going to be for this, and got up. She returned a short while later smelling of the fresh, clean scent of my favorite soap.

Thinking I had finally gotten through, I fell to sleep like a rock. I was having a dream where Hannibal Lector was teaching me how to butcher a human and he was planning to teach me by carving me up in front of myself. “I always start with the sexual organs, Mister Johnson. I like to grind them into a spicy sausage and enjoy them with Stella Artois beer.”

I started telling him that he needed to switch to Carta Blanca, when he put his hand on my chest, placed his sharpened knife on my pecker, and got right in my face. He said, “I’ll be deciding what time I eat breakfast,” when I awakened to the Squirt, sitting on my chest with her face right in my grill.

“Wha, wha what is it, little lady?” I looked at the clock and it was five minutes to five.

As I turned to read the clock, I felt wetness and pinpricks emanating from my pecker. It reminded me of what I imagined advance-stage gonorrhea would be like when we watched those films in health class back to Seventh Grade.

“Don’t move, Mooner,” Squirt said, her voice sounding like a serial killer to a victim trussed for savaging. “Yoda, wiggle your head.”

He did. Huh?

“Huh,” I said. “Yoda, you spit out my pecker, and right fucking now!”

“Yoda,” Squirt advised, “give it a little squeeze.”

He did.

“OK, guys, this is not even a little bit funny. I said put the pecker down and go back to sleep.”

That’s when Squirt said, “OK, Mooner, you were warned. You have until the countdown from ten to agree to feed us at 5 am. If not, at least Yoda will have a little snack at Five O’clock.” She paused to look deep into my eyes, shook her head when I didn’t agree, and said, “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…”

I haven’t been able to go back to sleep, but I’m starting to realize how much work I can get done when I get up at 5 am. I’ve fed all the animals, dug the fishing worms and the liver ice cream is in the freezer getting hard.

Maybe I’m the one needing some adjustments. Manana, yall.

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2 Responses to “Breakfast Special: “I’ll Have The Sausage Rare.””

  1. Mooner, you need to get those bitches under control. Then again…maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be: bitches get the XY subspecies under control.

  2. Reck. OK, at least in this situation, I agree that I was being let by my pecker. I saw where M-State whipped Wisconsin yesterday. Maybe that takes a little sting out of last week.

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