Before opening my eyes, I like to lie abed imagining the bucolic splendor of my waking. The night’s still has yet to give way to the dawn. The lyrical call of a whippoorwill drifts over a distant hill. Rosy glimmers of the sun’s rays emerge shy at first. The faintest hint of a skunk perfumes the air nuanced just enough to make the nose take an interest.
The reality of my morning is different. A whippoorwill shrieks outside my bedroom window, like a tie loosed, sweaty-browed, spittle spewing futures trader on the stock exchange floor. The frenetic bird insisting repeatedly “Will, whip her!” I still lie abed fantasizing. But instead of the tranquil pastoral serenity, I relish the joy, I would feel if I could seize the offender of my peace by its scrawny neck and shake the life out of it.
Meanwhile, the essence of my house reeks redolent of burnt rubber, mixed with overly roasted espresso beans, heads of cabbage and garlic along with a big squeeze of freshly mowed lawn, and a liberal amount of long unwashed human. The nexus of this miasma of fetidness is Sophie, my Great Dane. She whines on the other side of the front door moldering in the scent of the white striped nocturne. A lot of canine real estate has been sequestered outside for as long as a month a testament to the energizer-bunny-stamina of the mother of all stink bombs. Nothing keeps on going quite like it as yet another dawn breaks.