Sunday Morning Routine

I’ve been awake since about 2:30. Not by choice, mind you, but due to insomnia. Mary had to be out the door before dawn for work, and once she stirred, so did I.

It’s Sunday morning, so I shuffled into the kitchen, poured myself a strong cup of coffee, and invited Buddy and Honey out onto the porch with me. Buddy was all for it—did a little tippy-tap dance at the door like he was auditioning for a dance number.

Honey, on the other hand, gave me a look only a pit bull can give, somewhere between pity and disgust. “Are you friggin’ kidding?” her eyes said, before she flopped her head back down with the kind of dramatic sigh teenagers are known for.

So out Buddy and I went, into the quiet that isn’t quite quiet. Mike, who lives directly west of us, had his diesel truck running. He was loading it with gear, probably heading out for one of his weekend wilderness jaunts.

I’ve never asked where he goes. I figure if he wanted folks to know, he’d say something.

Across the street and one house over—kitty-corner, as Grandma used to say—Bob was already watering his garden. Now, we’re on an even-odd watering schedule in this neighborhood, and today wasn’t his day.

But Bob waters every day. He holds the hose at just the right angle to make it look like he’s relieving himself on his flowers. I don’t think he does it on purpose, but if he does, it’s an oddly specific rebellion.

Then there’s Kate, directly to my east. I couldn’t see her—her driveway’s full of cars—but I knew she was on her porch because I caught the scent of her cigarette drifting on the breeze. That first drag of the day, mingled with fresh coffee, seems to be her version of a hymn.

Buddy lay in the grass, eyes peeled for the woman with the little white dog. She comes by like clockwork, and when she does, Buddy trembles with excitement.

He doesn’t bark, but he whines and wags and tries to be charming. The woman never waves, never smiles, and certainly never lets her poodle princess come over to say hello.

Still, Buddy stays put, a good boy through and through. Then, like clockwork, he forgets she was even there—his memory as short as the goldfish swimming around in our neighbor’s little koi pond.

Once she passes, the street starts to quiet down. Mike drives off, Bob wraps up his rogue watering session, and I hear Kate’s screen door slap shut.

That’s our cue. Coffee cup empty, I kick off my slippers and we begin our strange little ritual—twenty minutes of prancing around the yard. He mirrors me step for step, not because he has to, but because I’m doing it, and he figures it must be fun.

The truth is, I do it to fight the neuropathy in my feet. Got a nasty case of frostbite back when I was twenty. Walking barefoot in the cool morning grass helps.

It’s counterintuitive, like a lot of things in my life. It doesn’t make a whole hill of sense, but it works.

Afterwards, I put the slippers back on and we head inside for my second cup of coffee. Buddy trots in behind me, already thinking about breakfast.

And I sit at the table, staring out the window, wondering if this is what retirement will feel like—coffee, good dogs, and just enough nonsense to keep it interesting.