Last night was one of those bad white nights where you wake at two and worry. The kind of night where you’re haunted by worries that are just practical enough to be real, and which yet, you know you can do nothing about at two in the morning. Or three in the morning. Or four thirty, when you know you only have another hour until the alarm goes off. And of course, by the time the alarm goes off, you’re finally finding yourself slipping under the wire into real sleep. Except that now, you must get up.
The saving grace on nights like that is my Raymond. Somehow, he can tell when I’m upset, and stewing, and he comes in and hops up on the bed with me and my Owie. Owen sleeps up near the top of the bed, curled up not quite on the pillows, and on bad nights Ray will curl up at the foot of the bed. It’s almost enough, on those insomniac nights, that there are two sleeping creatures, who will flop a head over an ankle, or curl up in the crook of your knees. It’s almost enough, as you’re lying there worrying about loved ones, and job security, and debt, and mortgage payments, and all the other things that keep us up during these dark times. It’s almost enough to make you remember that you’re in a house you worked two jobs to buy, a house you have a hope of paying off, a house to house you and your beloved creatures. A sleeping dog to ward off monkey mind. And just as it’s working, the alarm goes off.