Time to Make the Donuts

For those of you who did not grow up with Dunkin Donuts, that was the tagline of a commercial that ran throughout the late 80's and 90's showing Mr. Dunkin getting up at "oh-god-hundred," as my sis in law would say, to get to work. He'd shuffle out of bed at the decidedly unpleasantly early hour while saying, "Time to make the donuts. Time to make the donuts."

Which is why I'm posting things at 3 and 4am. Not, sadly, because I have any french crullers in the oven, but because we had a thunder storm that not only woke a completely-inconsolable, potentially night-terroring Bambina, but also put Cliff the dog into his usual thunderstorm state of restrained panic.

First came the screams, wails and shrieks. For about 8 minutes. Then came a tumbling noise that I thought initially was Bambina rolling down the stairs. My fear was allayed when a large greyhound came barrelling into my room to pace around. I had already flipped on the light, so I could see him looking at me, looking at my bed, looking at me, looking at my bed. I felt bad for him but I said, "No way in hell, buddy. Sorry." {Being a yearlong germophobe I pretty much let the dog have his space. I don't seek him out, I don't really pet him unless I know I can wash my hands immediately, I can't feed him and he can't sleep in my room. This does not, however, translate into the dog feeling at all like I'm not his best pal. Which is sweet even though I feel a little bit mean for not giving him all the love he craves).

Anyway, even when I'm not a yearlong germophobe I still have one boundary with dogs and that is my bed. I just can't do it. Something about knowing they have been outside in the dirt, peeing, pooping, sniffing other dogs' a**es, licking themselves, just completely grosses me out as I picture them lounging on my sheets. Like, I wouldn't let a guy wear his outside shoes, his gardening pants and a hairshirt in my bed, so why would I let a dog bring in the same stuff? But there's an intellectual fiction among dog lovers, isn't there, that he isn't really bringing in anything from outside. I think it's cute and amusing and, quite frankly, necessary to owning and loving a dog (you let him lick your face--"kiss" you--without really thinking about all the places his tongue has been that you would never put your face near); but I just can't extend the fiction to my bed. So Cliff was SOL on that score. Fairly or unfairly, it's also an issue with big dogs in particular. (Rabbi, you can stop reading here). There is something disconcerting about a large (if you know what I'm saying) animal putting "himself" all over your bed and pillows. He once fell asleep on Bambina's pillow and I made the BBDD wash it in hot water because, "I can't have my child sleeping in the same spot as dog penis." You know, people have their cats and yorkies all over everything because it's all out of sight/out of mind. But you get a dobie or a greyhound or a mastiff settling "themselves" on your pillowslip, you just have to implement a laundry purge. So, good for Cliff that he's a big dog. Bad for Cliff that he's a big dog on a thundery night in my room.

Anyway, the poor guy remained beside himself, unlike the Bambina upstairs who was mercifully beginning to be soothed. Cliff had no such luck. The thunder continued, his frantic pacing continued, I got up to go the bathroom, he was pushing against the door to try to get in (or he was headbutting it, based on the noise and door movement), he paced some more, and then climbed himself into the bathtub. No easy feat for a mammoth greyhound whose claws make that clickety-click sound on the floor, I remind you. It was like Big Dog Ice Capades in there.

Finally his mom managed to extract him and get him back upstairs, the Bambina was soothed after a final visit from me wherein I told her that I was tired, it was night time and I needed her to be quiet till morning, the storm passed, and quiet resumed.

Now all creatures great and small are adrift in happy slumber. Except for me.

I think I need a donut.