Barbara: Scaffolding Exercise

The Morning Dogs in Great Numbers Abducted Me

I confess it was childish, I do.  Not given time to wake up with a good cup of coffee with no creamer, just black, I resigned myself to make small talk with him, even contributing more than I normally do.  But I seethe, simmer – then hop up and leave him there, retreating to the rumpled bed of my room at the far end of the apartment near the door.  In the morning light filtered through lace curtains, I chant in-words: “inconsiderate”, “intolerable,” and “invasion of privacy,” when dogs – I don’t remember how many – stampede up the stairs– toenails scratching the floor, tails thumping the walls – and into the apartment.

Barking and whining like they’ve never been fed, they plead to go for a walk, and I, the sucker, begin to reach for my shoes as they hurdle onto the bed, slobbering me.  They lick me with their long, dripping tongues and roll me onto the floor.  Then, voices howling, they drag me down into the street.  Carried on their backs, I try to think my way out of this.  When the dogs stop to sniff a hydrant, I jump from the pack, fall to my feet, and hoof it home.  At the doorstep, I grab for the balustrade and limp up the stairs.

But my roomie locked the door after hearing the commotion, and my knocking scared him silly.  White-faced, I babble what happened.  Even I know it sounds crazy.  It’s okay, he tells me, it’s okay.  He makes me some tea, pours brandy in my glass, and settles me on the couch.  Now he’s the one simmering and seething, looking resentfully at me, looking longingly at the TV, knowing his show’s almost over, while I interrupt his morning.