The Blue Hour

There is the time before I'm fully awake, when the walls come and go as I open then close my eyes, when all I know is the warmth of the blankets and Ken beside me, the soft balls of the kittens curled around us and the weight of Duncan across my feet, his body spread between us, the soft line of his cheek resting against my ankle. I have to fight off the day without fighting too hard because it's the struggle that pulls me from my dreams and pillows and tears me away from the soft and quiet joy that is sleep. Dreams are like socks I slip in and out of with so little effort. All I want is to stay here, to keep my feet from touching the floor, from making any noise that will arouse the cats or cause Duncan to shift his chin from the spot near my toes it fits so nicely into. I only want to lay where I am, the light slipping around the edges of the curtains, blue and fragile and kind like a good-morning lullaby, if there was such a thing. So I snooze and rouse and breath deep into my pillow, which smells like the lavender candles I sometimes burn and try not to think about standing outside in the frosted grass waiting for Duncan, poor, barefooted Duncan, to find a nice spot to mark as his own. Instead I dream his dreams, the one where we're walking along the creek whose banks sprout bushes and shrubs that flower tennis balls and chew toys, whose stepping stones are bones and rawhides. The sun is warm and the squirrels and rabbits dart back and forth in front of us, unable to climb or hide and the birds whistle a Duncan sort of song.

There is no finer way to start the day than from bed with sweet dog dreams in your head.