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Life in the Burbs


LIFE IN THE BURBS
The alarm clock went off in that annoying way it had, every single morning at
6am. Why was it always 6 am?
I stumbled out of bed to turn it off; I had long since learned that I could not trust
myself to have it next to the bed. I careened back to the bed and fell in a lump on
my pillow. The drool woke me up again and I faced the inevitable and ambled into
the bathroom, then the kitchen. Mercifully, the master of the house had at last
figured out the automatic coffee maker. If I could just keep it together long
enough in the evening to pour in the water, measure out the beans, grind them
and dump; not forgetting to hit the ‘on’ button, I was assured of lifesaving
caffeine in the am.
I clutched the first cup to my chest like a baby and opened the door to the back
yard. It was summer and the yard was still cool and invitingly green. The lawn
chairs beckoned to me. Chubby, the dog, had gotten up with a big yawn and was
taking his morning pee in the bushes. The cats were prowling around looking for
big game; Paws, the big cat, sniffing the dog’s pee like it might be interesting.
Early summer, the intense Southern California heat had not yet begun so we still
had a few coolish days left. The birds were flitting about and all seemed right with
the world.
Taking another sip, I wandered back to refill my cup and start my rounds of
waking and reawaking the Master and child of the good ship lollipop.
The Master was pretty good, once his feet were actually on the floor; it was but a
few moments before the big red bathrobe I got him one Christmas was tied
around his skinny waist and he was slouching into the shower. It took a good deal
of hot water to get his eyes opened, but it seemed to do the trick. By the time he
was on his second cup of coffee, he was almost speaking.
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