Monday, June 27, 2011

Aiming Practice.

Orion sticks his nose in my face.
"What time is it?"
He whines.
"Come here."
I pull him onto the bed so I can procrastinate in the waking up process by distracting him with scratches. I start to fall asleep mid scratch.
"We got up at 4 AM. I know you can't possibly have to poop again."
He makes a grab for my wrist.
"Not that hand. Remember, this one is wounded because you don't know how to run in a straight line. It's out of commission." It's true. My poor hand has a gash on it from an early morning sprint that ended with me in the concrete and Orion puzzled with why when he went to check out the neighbors grass I tripped over him and groaned. One skinned knee, shoulder, hand and ripped pair of pants later the hand was still out of commission.
"Okay, okay. I'm up." I motivate myself to toss my legs over the edge of the bed, snatch my glasses from the lamp, and stand up.
"Let's go get you breakfast," I say, but Orion has taken the slight delay as an opportunity to practice his liter box. I turn towards him at the sound of peeing.
Well, too late. I think, pleased at least that he's in his litter box. Pleased until I poke my head around the bedroom door and notice my art smock a slightly different shade, pressed against the litter box.
"Orion, we need to teach you to aim."

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