I
forgot I’m supposed to be puppysitting later this week. Remembered
it earlier this afternoon, and since I was alone in the yard at
the time the response to remembering—“crap”—fell a bit flat. Allow
me to say it had a lot of meaning behind it and significant emotion.
If the chipmunks under the shed were around to hear me, they know
I wasn’t at all thrilled by the prospect of arriving guests.
It’s
not that I’m against puppysitting. I’m great with it. Love dogs
in general. Love the dogs that are supposed to be coming over
this week. Happy to help the friends that asked. But…
Truth
be told, now that the day is approaching, I can think of a few
dozen things I’d rather be doing.
Don’t
get me wrong, the dogs on the way—and yes, that is dogs, plural—are
great dogs. They’ve never damaged a thing in our house during
previous visits, can be left unsupervised if I need or want to
go out for a bit, and basically the only responsibilities I have
in this entire arrangement involve food, water, and opening the
door into the backyard. (Note to self: Turn on the light and
check backyard first. No skunks. Watch out for the skunks.)
The
only problem I’m likely to encounter, based on previous puppysitting
of this duo, is that they will take over the bed. They’re sneaky
that way… kind of like camping out for something they really,
really want, they’ll head in there in the middle of the afternoon
to claim their spots. They might move for dinner. They will move
if they hear the door open. It’s possible they might find a spot
on a chair in the living room while I watch television. More likely
though… napping on the bed hours before I head in there, and then
I have to move them to claim my spot.
It
isn’t the dogs though. I’m realizing it’s cleaning the house that’s
getting to me. I’m fine with what I said I would do, it’s the
things I need to do to get ready to do it. And the problem there
is that I’m getting old.
Men
with beards don’t grow beards because they want to have beards.
They grow beards because they don’t want to shave. They don’t
want to shave every day. That kind of getting old. Understand?
It’s like… hold on… new paragraph…
Thirty
years ago, getting ready to go out for the night or away for the
weekend was never a concern. I cleaned up… I packed… I knew there
was a good chance I would come out the other side lacking sleep.
Now?
I’ve
been known to pick a restaurant for dinner with my wife based
on whether or not I can get away with a t-shirt and shorts because
I have no desire to iron. I really, really want to see my friends
tonight… I really, really, really want to be asleep eight
to nine hours before I have to wake up.
A
month ago, when I said “sure, bring them over” I felt great about
it. Now? Ugh. But those dogs shouldn’t be offended, since I’m
also kind of happy it’s going to rain tomorrow because I have
no desire to mow the lawn.
I’d
like to come up with some wonderful defense of all this, but other
than just wanting to put on my pajamas, grab a cookie or two and
a bottle of water, then sit down with the remote being the preferred
plans, I’ve got nothing.
Yup.
Old.
The
twist, of course, is that once those preparations are over and
the actual event takes place, it’s usually a blast. You start
having thoughts about why you don’t do things like it more often.
When
those dogs leave, I’ll get a bit depressed and wish they could
stay. I’ll be thinking about whether or not Terry and I need a
puppy in the house.
Crazy
stuff.
Eventually,
the every day realities return. I’ll be happy spending a day in
my pajamas and not worrying about accomplishing anything. I’ll
greet requests to play cards, or comments like “let’s just watch
a movie here”, with joy (and relief).
The
routine. It’s what makes the special special.