Cursed Tongue: Cursed Awakenings

Posted by CursedTongue on May 11, 2006

Typically, I don’t need waking. I instinctively wake approximately three minutes before my alarm clock goes off. I think it stems from the days when my family was too poor to afford more than one alarm clock. So every morning my dear, loving Papa took it upon himself to fling the door to my room open, flick the lights on and off and sing special lyrics to the tune of “Reveille” at the top of his lungs.

For those of you who missed Basic Training and wonder how that feels, it’s like a million tiny combat boots stomping on every last nerve while your stomach is wrenched from your body and tossed from a 17th story window into oncoming traffic. It’s no wonder I picked at my oatmeal, as I spent nearly every morning battling adrenaline-fueled nausea.

Lately, it’s been the lovable cuddly-cute yapper dogs in the neighborhood that have been waking me up. I’m told that there are breeds of small dog that don’t have some grudge against the world and don’t feel the need to tell everyone within a five mile radius about their size-challenged angst through a prolonged series of high-pitched yips. That’s great and I can say for certain that I can’t hear them and therefore they don’t bother me.

I’m bothered by the little dogs that bark as if Timmy not only fell down the well, but he also discovered sharks at the bottom. These miniature impulse buys from the store at the mall have some sort of inferiority complex going. They feel threatened by a world containing the threat of being trampled by Doc Martins, and they create their own ear-splitting, dissonant symphonies in a pre-emptive strike to protect themselves.

The smaller-than-average dog brains of little dogs don’t grasp the concept that they’re living the good life. They don’t have to worry about food and shelter and $5,000 veterinary bills. All they really have to worry about is the occasional starving coyote and owners subjecting them to the ultimate in canine humiliation by making them wear a purple dog tutu.

I suppose that’s not entirely fair. Yapper dogs also have to worry about neglectful adoptive parents who don’t let them in so they must continue cavorting in their back yards barking at every dry leaf that blows by which incidentally wakes all of the neighbors and incurs their undying hatred.

As I fight through the fog in my head from getting only about six hours of sleep, my mind drifts to unhealthy fantasies of drop-kicking a Bichon Frise. Despite the violent turn my daydreams have taken, I’m no Cruella DeVille, and I know that faulting a dog for barking is like blaming Paris Hilton for buying Prada. I know the real culprit is the owner’s lack of discipline, and I would never do anything to hurt a dog, but fantasizing about writing a stern letter to a neighbor just isn’t very satisfying.

I got used to the planes. I got used to the cement mixers and the backhoes building an auto mall in the neighborhood. I even got used to the dawn cracking every morning at an absolutely ungodly hour. The barking has got to stop. I am not a morning person. I’ve been irreparably damaged by the trauma of my “Reville” wake up calls.

Despite being separated by walls of concrete bricks, those fluffy-wuffy, beady-eyed little darlings in the neighborhood keep multiplying.

Have pity, owners of small, vocal dogs. I can’t be held responsible for your hibiscus inexplicably dying or for any mysterious damage to your garage door. Please take responsibility for your animals and teach them to restrain their fervent loathing of all things holy and sacred—like waking up three minutes before the alarm goes off. In the meantime the owners of Sparky, Molly, Bam Bam and Coco can go eat stale kibble and like it.

- Sarah Letnes

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