Maquinna's Poop du Jour

A Not-So-Silent Night

I came home late last night after a long day of shooting photographs. Frequently the studio and classroom areas were quite noisy and boisterous. Someone made a crack about me heading back to the peace and quiet of my home in the country. If they only knew...

As soon as I parked the car in the driveway the bullfrogs were in full chorus, the croaking so deep and penetrating it almost sounded like a pack of geese in the swamp. Crickets and other bugs provided a continuous hum, monotone, like the drone of a generator or an old fridge.

The cat and dog were comparatively quiet. Ock had already sacked out for the night, and as she's now mostly deaf, she didn't even hear me head up the stairs. Motorhead was nowhere to be found, for the moment. Probably still out hunting.

Craig was already in bed but heard me head into the bathroom. "[insert private term of endearment here]?" he called. "I'll be right there." Much swishing of water and brushing of teeth, splashing my face, various pill bottles shaking, drawers opening and shut, toilet flushing, combing out of hair, then into the bedroom. Undress, quickly, and toss on a little cotton shift hanging off the bedpost. Begin to pull back the covers on my side when Motorhead suddenly appears under my arm, about to assume her current ritual of parking next to me on the bed and taking up more and more space as the night progresses. It's amazing how much bedspace a ten pound cat needs.

I've been fighting a cold these past few days and haven't slept very well. I'm not a particularly deep sleeper to begin with, but when I'm congested it doesn't seem like I get more than an hour or so at a stretch before I'm woken by the slightest noise or my lack of breath. I snuggle into Craig, kitty snuggles into me, a dozen limbs akimbo, make that a baker's dozen with her tail. We talk for awhile about the day's shoots, his workday, endless little details. Motorhead is purring in the way that makes you understand how she got her name. Her purr is the engine of a lawnmower, steady staccato, decidedly unfeminine. We like to joke about her lack of delicacy.

Sleep comes, briefly. I wake around two o'clock, get up to find some water. Stumbling back into bed, Craig's arm wraps back around me as we hear coyotes howling in the distance. Motorhead bolts upright; that wild noise has more power over her than any warm bed. She leans towards the window, back arched, then jumps off the bed and runs down the stairs to investigate.

Three o'clock. Ock is barking at the door. This happens sometimes with her, I'm never sure if it's part of the doggie dementia she has ('canine cognitive disfunction syndrome'), or just not being able to hold her water as long through the night. I suspect it's the former; she manages quite well through the day when we're at work. Craig gets up to let her out. We both know she'll be barking again in ten minutes to be let back in. Craig gets back up again when that happens.

Four o'clock. I'm woken by a strange sound coming from downstairs. It sounds like a scuffle between furry creatures. The Interloper, the roaming tom from the junkyard, has been around again lately. I wonder if Motorhead and he have had an encounter. Craig gets up to check, but comes back with nothing to report.

He gets back into position. Somewhere outside it sounds like an owl is calling, and another one calling back, much further away. It's like trying to listen to a conversation taking place between two moons. Craig and I make a few brief remarks about it. He says he woke up Ock during his last trip downstairs and expects she'll be at the door again shortly. He's right.

He comes back to bed, spooning behind me with his rough chin on my shoulder. I actually like the feeling of his chin-scratches. I feel his body shift and settle, hear his breathing change. Kitty rejoins us; after a few head-butts she slips into the crook of my elbow and starts her engine again. Craig's drifted off, and probably doesn't hear the mosquito that's circling ever closer to us. I don't even try to swat at it. The prospect of being bitten is a small price compared to one of us finally being able to get some sleep.

The sky begins to glow through the window when I remember Ock's still outside. This time she just scratches at the door, not enough to wake Craig. I carefully slip out of bed, as noiselessly as possible, and head downstairs to let her in, quietly. I open the door just as the birds are waking, and within minutes their chatter drowns out the silence of the night.

posted by Maquinna @ 1:21 p.m.