Good morning Carol Baskins

Once I got a “yippie little dog,” that first morning I overcome my hatred for all things “yippie” and learned to love her. How? Sleeping in.

It’s been 4 years of morning bliss. Even when it’s not hotter than the devil’s breath, there’s no nagging for walks at dawn. I never wake up to dog licking face.

When the sun comes up, Carol Baskins and I both pull the covers over our heads.

If I get out of bed first, she just snuggles up to the wife. If one of us is sick, she will stay in bed all day.

If I get up “early” and plop on the couch to read through Substack or WordPress or (your fake) god forbid the sane-washing New York Times online, Carol just crawls in my lap and puts her whole body into covering me with laziness.

We are in this procrastination together. She lays on me, I make excuses not to get up.

“You know she is just trying to control you,” the wife spits out of the side of her mouth, while the other side is filled with jealousy and envy.

Retire to morning repose

I’m thinking about retiring “full time” in 2025.

The wife’s not having it.

“I don’t want to leave in the morning with you two snuggling in bed and come home just to find you snuggling on the couch.”

That is absolutely our plan. But I promised I would find “something to do” so the wife won’t find us sleeping together every day.

“And it can’t just be writing your bullshit” (this blog), the wife said. “It has to be a real activity.”

The wife wants to keep working part-time for two more years.

“I have to have some reason to wake up in the morning…” otherwise the three of us might not get out of bed till 2. Sounds good to the chiweenie and me.

Morning dog

Last week, I got a reminder of how much Carol and I love to sleep in. We were watching the Boy’s dog, Susan, while they kidnapped our granddaughter and headed for Lake Tahoe for a week.

Susan was a notorious sleeper. Cuddling with strangers and even stranger roommates till all hours of the afternoon.

But that baby gets up at 5 sometimes 6 in the fucking morning. The Boy grabs the dog and goes for a walk to get coffee.

The first two mornings with us, Susan, the dog, put her face in mine at the first signs of sunrise. Her breath was somewhere between dead fish and active abscess. She pawed at my chin and sat on my chest.

I rolled over and put a pillow between us. Carol didn’t move from her tight snuggle at my hip.

Susan yipped a little. Breathed heavily a lot. By the third morning, she resigned in protest to our morning sloth.

Good morning Carol Baskins

But day 5 brought an unexpected morning chill to the Arizona desert. After 112 days over 100, we had a dawn go below 80 degrees.

I forced myself out of bed at 6. Carol went under the covers.

Apparently only her ears were awake. When I opened the far left drawer that contains my cycling stuff — shorts and skull caps — she crawled to the top, skipped down her steps (I shit you not, my yippie little dog needs steps to get up and down to our bed) and was instantly at my left heel.

She stayed there, until it was her time to ride. Bouncing at my every step, scrambling backward, scratching at the tile, if I changed direction to retrieve all the things I usually forget on a ride: towels, phone, sunglasses… (said skull cap after I wet it and put it in the freezer for 10 minutes to take the edge off the heat).

I sat down for one last cup of coffee and hoped to take a shit before heading off to pedal for 90 minutes. Carol remained on the floor. Pulling the blanket on my legs. Shuffling her feet on the carpet. If she could speak she’d say, “Andiamo, grasso bastardo” because of course my little Chiweenie would speak Italian (let’s go you fat bastard)…

The shit never came, but off Carol and I went for a bike ride at dawn. Susan hates the bike. She happily stayed behind.

It was hot, humid and two hours of “hard work” for me.

But it’s the only reason my little dog would get out of bed and that made us all say: Good Morning Carol Baskins.

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