The Doghouse

October should be the glowing embers, the gradual awareness of a chill creeping up your back while the campfire's heat still puts a flush on your cheeks.  Apparently, Texas over-fueled things this year, with last week averaging in the nineties and expectations for this week remaining solidly in the eighties.  Humidity, temperature, take your pick.  Really, concessions have been made.  Record rainfall this year, and no record heat this summer; I should appreciate it more.  Instead, I anticipate a damp chill in the morning air, when the sun is still low and the clouds are hanging light grey above the houses, only to open the door and hear the sky grumble hotly as a wave of steamy air rolls into the house.  Sitting bundled on the patio in the morning cradling a hot cup of coffee when the sweat trickles from your forehead or beads up under your nose when you go to sip from the mug, somehow that fails to produce the meditative moments implied by the coffee commercials.

 Aside from an uninspiring yet highly prized morning cup of joe, my day has a few other routines.  The feeding of the dog commences promptly after he and Brad have risen and done whatever it is they do to kill time until I get up 45 minutes later.  Generally this involves my putting dry kibble on top of whatever crumbs of egg Khuno failed to find after the spoonful "fell" out of Brad's omelet or breakfast burrito.  Khuno doesn't get nearly as excited as he used to when I mention breakfast.