One Less Bell to Answer
by Debi H
 
Sunday morning I refused to get out of bed.
 
Friday had been a juggernaut of a day, beginning with the 7AM workout prescribed by my darn New Year's resolution, and not ending until I staggered into bed at 4AM, drunk not on alcohol but on an endless merry-go-round of activities in support of other people's expectations.
 
Saturday was a blur of inadequate sleep, coffee, and profound conversations.
 
Sunday, however, was ours. Me and the tiny dog. He wanted to get up at 7AM, when my dawn simulator was at full brightness. I turned it off and convinced him that it was really still the middle of the night. At 9AM he called me a liar, and backed up his claim with the weak Seattle sun coming through the windows. I rolled over, pulled the comforter over my head, and told him to sue me. We slept until 11:45AM, when I promised to get up at noon if he would just let me close my eyes for 15 more minutes, and then it was suddenly nearly 2PM.
 
The answering machine downstairs was beeping obnoxiously, and as always, I had to listen to it to make it stop. There was a dead air message from some person who has not yet mastered the intricacies of the new millennium. And THIS is how you use a telephone! If you talk, the answering machine will record your voice! Miss Manners says always leave a brief message!
 
And then there was the second message, which took my breath away.
 
"David and Julia are back, but they left their house keys in Australia. Can you bring them over? Call as soon as possible."
 
The owners of the extended-Australian-vacation keys were also the owners of Connor, one tiny dog.
 
There wasn't time for chicanery. What phone message? I have a good reason for bringing the keys and not the dog! I didn't REALLY want to leave David and Julia and Harry the baby exhausted and standing outside their door, for want of a house key. Really?! Yes, really. I do have a conscience and a heart.
 
I called them as soon as possible, as asked, and arranged to get the house key and the tiny dog to them. I packed his belongings in a large garbage bag. The fleece that he chews into fluff that settles all over the house like snow and threatens to catch fire in the vacuum cleaner. Tattered and soggy stuffed animals. Kibble that he pretended was beneath his distinguished palate whenever I was looking.
 
My activity of placing toys in a bag was to him just another one of my seemingly pointless games, like mopping and vacuuming and feeding the fish. The extra-long walk and dinner in the early afternoon, hours early, was just a tiny dog hitting the jackpot. The car ride was one in a series of hundreds we'd taken together. Aimee Mann at her most mournful on the car stereo seemed not to be related to the situation at hand.
 
We arrived at the apartment. An additional armload of tiny dog belongings were collected from the car, and added to the garbage bag. The dog, the bag, and I went upstairs to take the tiny dog home.
 
And then...
 
Monday morning I got out of bed--another 7AM workout--and I had my life back. Weeks of posing as a dog owner were over. How old is he? What kind of dog is that?
 
The car battles were over. I'd rather be in the front seat with you than in the crate in the back seat, and I promise I'll stay down on the floor out of the way of the airbag. Except I'm going to climb up on the passenger seat right in the way of the airbag--at least I'll die happy. And except I'm going to crawl onto your lap and block your vision of the road while we're on the freeway--at least we'll both die happy in the fiery 10-car pileup, right?
 
The other car battles were over. I hate you for crating me. Except this crate is pretty nice and I love you.
 
The parking battles were over. This time I'm getting out of the car without a leash. I promise to run into traffic, I mean, I promise not...Oh, just put the stupid leash on.
 
Reading all of this, maybe I should have driven less. If I had known that was going to be our last day, maybe I would have gotten up and played with him. But probably not.
 
Sunday, after all, was ours. Curled up under the comforter, wearing a ragged 11 year old shirt my father bought me, a warm furry lump at the back of my knees. Me and the tiny dog.