A Day in the Life. . . Phase One: The Dawn Chorus (Writer)

 A Day in the Life...

Phase One: The Dawn Chorus

By Writer

Seriously, the West Coast (as in, the wet n wild West Coast of the South Island of New Zealand) isn't much fun in the winter if you don't handle cold and gloomy very well. I do not handle cold and gloomy very well AT ALL, ergo, I do not handle the West Coast in the winter very well. 

    

Don't get me wrong, it's nice on those rare days where there's a crisp frost (anywhere down to -15C in winters past) followed by pale blue skies and spectacular views to snow-capped mountains. But when it rains miserably for weeks at a time, or when the fog is so thick you can barely see your hand in front of your face, or the mist lies inside the house equally to the outdoors... winter loses its appeal pretty damn fast.

    

Add to that; damp and muddy dogs, sad guineapigs in houses we struggle to find windows of opportunity to clean, mud-encrusted ponies waiting for hay, soggy cats, and weeping windows. I ask myself regularly, and why did I think this was a good idea again?

    

Because it's still beautiful, even when it's a wet, cold hole.

But the purpose of this isn't to talk about winter, it's to talk about what winter looks like on a more intimate level, at the beginning of A Day in the Life...

It's 0600. It's very cold, and dark, and there is also a very definite lack of desire to poke so much as a nose outside of the covers. (I've been told I have a nose reminiscent of a ski-ramp so the nose tends to be the first thing that tests the atmosphere, kind of a personal frost-gauge, if you will)). Why am I even awake? Because FIVE dogs tell me I HAVE to be. Fair, (before you point this out to me), at least four of those five dogs are my choice, and now that there are five, I wouldn't have it any other way. 

However, five dogs (one great lanky loppy-legs of eighteen months old, three barrels of six months old, and, finally, one older gentleman of nine who would happily sleep as long as I do) are difficult to ignore. 

It begins with whining (that would be Dillo, the whinger of the tubby trio). Then, there are the first exploratory wet noses followed by a large paw across the face from Chi (AKA lanky loppy legs). Finally, all twenty-five-plus kilograms of Arlan (the biggest of the tubby-guts) probably joined by his not-too-much lighter sister, Song, will bounce somewhere upon my previously slumbering person.

By now, much and all as I'd rather not be... I'm awake. There are certain terms of, shall we say endearment (?), while I attempt to wrestle my way out from under what is now a blanket of canines before I can cross what feels remarkably like an ice-field to the back-door, let in an Arctic blast and shoo the pack out into the darkness, leave door open, and crawl back into the temporary haven of my bed. Temporary. Very temporary.

Soon, (oh, all too soon), the pack returns. Get up. Shut door, which, by the way, only contains the two bigger dogs (Chi and Blu). The remaining three (Arlan, Song, and Dillo) can still (do NOT ask me how) fit through the cat door. Having yet again returned to bed (because, let's face it, why get up any sooner than I have to?) the real fun begins.

The pups (Chi included) are now fully awake and ready to play, regardless of whether the rest of the household is awake (or wants to be) or not. Four dogs (Blu has retreated to the study and is hiding in his favorite chair) begin stampeding around a very, VERY  small house. Furniture is merely part of an obstacle course. My own person also becomes part of said obstacle course as they leap onto one end of the bed, gallop along my length (try a couple of hoof-sized paws to varying parts of sensitive anatomy!) and leap off the other end. There is slamming and scrambling violently through the far-too-small cat door resulting in quivering glass panes (I'm wondering which will give first; the puppies attempts to scramble through the tiny space or the door itself), rough-and-tumbles in the living room, careening through the legs of the dining room table and chairs, caroming on and off the couch and armchairs.... all accompanied by enthusiastic barking, growling and, sometimes, full-on sibling conflict. (Three large Catahoula Rottweiler mix puppies in a sort-of-friendly dog-fight in a small-confined space can be quite impressive).

Eventually (to be fair, I rarely last long after I've been galloped over a few times and have had one too many wet paws to the face), I concede and get up.

Funny how quickly, once I'm up and the bowls are lined up on the bench, all previous chaos reverts to calm and composed. Five eager doggy faces are focused on my every move, quickly followed by somersaulting in pursuit of Blu to his own private dining spot in the study. Chi is in the laundry, for uninterrupted dining at leisure (for a large dog, he eats slow). In the kitchen, one by one, Dillo sits and waits and begins, Song sits and waits and begins and, finally, (this must be so difficult for the fastest eater) Arlan gets his.

Breakfast over, the entire wild mob is shooed away outside. Do your thing, doggoes and, when you're ready to come back quietly, then I can permit you to settle back indoors.

Phase one of a winter morning... done.