The Mommy Whistle

I stayed up until 2 a.m.  I wasn't doing anything of importance, but by the time I was finished doing basically nothing, it was almost 2.  I got into bed and read four and a half sentences.  My Kindle fell and woke me up, so I turned out the light and went back to sleep.

At about 6:30 Magic reported that someone was out for an early morning jog.  At 6:40 a cat crossed the street.  At 6:56 a couple of insects flew by our mailbox.  I didn't actually get out of bed to witness these incidents.  After eight years of her early morning sentry duty, I can understand every word that Magic says.  I try not to respond, although I have resorted to the all-purpose human to dog response, "Magic, NO!"  To this, she inists, "Yes, the cat not only crossed the street, but he's digging under your bushes."  Then I mutter, "Look Magic, I don't care who went where.  It's none of my business.  Just let me sleep."  Then she goes away to the stair landing and patrols the front step from on high.  I go back to sleep.

Until 7:23.  At this time I hear a soft, high pitched whine.  It's kind of like a dog whistle, only it's a mommy whistle.  I call it a mommy whistle rather than a human whistle, because I am the only person in the house who can hear and respond.  She uses it to tell me if she's trapped in another bedroom and needs me specifically to get out of bed and open the door.  She will also to use it to remind me that I closed my door without her inside.  On weekend mornings she whistle whines to tell me she's hungry.  When I invariably ignore the summons she gets louder and more urgent and hints that she really, really has to go out.  When she's starved and is close to losing consciousness, she calls from the back door and does a little dance as soon as I come into view.  I know she doesn't have to go out.  I know this because she never, ever, ever pulls this routine on a rainy day, during which she is adamant that she won't be going out until next week.  She knows the routine.  She goes out and then gets fed. 

So I stagger down the stairs and let her out.  She runs down the steps and waits for me to sit down at the computer to check the headlines and get sucked into reading something, which admittedly can happen within 8 seconds.  After 12.3 seconds, she comes back to the door and reminds me that she is wasting away.  I let her in, feed her (oh, thank God!) and continue with whatever has sucked me into the computer.  A few minutes later I'm squinting at the screen because I didn't yet put in my contacts, and realize that I'm cold.  I make a cup of tea, grab a blanket, and continue squinting and reading.  Soon I realize that I am up for the day after half a night's sleep, and Magic is upstairs dilligently working on her early morning nap.