Chewing coffee grounds

            My husband's out of town for a few days, and I've got sole responsibility for the house and dog. Thanks to modern technology, the house runs itself – the air conditioning comes on and off automatically, and a timer controls the lights.

            But the dog?

            That's a different matter.

            Our dog, Channell, is quite attached to my husband. Since he works out of the house, she has a charmed life. That pooch naps inside on rainy mornings and sleeps underneath the living room fan on scorcher afternoons.

            I'm at school during the day, so Channell's had to spend the past week all alone in the back yard. I'd love to give her free reign, but she's a magician when it comes to jumping the fence.

            We'd go to the movies and leave her in the back yard with a big doggie treat. When we came home, she'd be sitting in the driveway, wagging her tail, half-eaten dog treat in her mouth.

            For her safety, we built a dog run that allows her to move around a secure area in the yard. Her house is back there along with plenty of food and water.

            She's got life pretty good and I told myself she'd be fine by herself all day long. After all, she's just a dog.

            But after the first day of coming home after dark, the guilt kicked in, and I promised her I'd get up early the next morning and take her for a walk.

            When the alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., I got up, brushed my teeth, snapped the leash on Channell and off we went. She had a wonderful time, and I felt like a responsible pet owner.

            Realizing I had some extra time, I loaded the dishwasher, paid some bills and folded a load of laundry. I left feeling pretty good about all I'd accomplished.

            Until 3 p.m.

            My eyelids felt like there were bricks holding them down, I had a tough time remembering my name and my legs felt like cement logs. I stumbled down to the Coke machine, and a can of caffeine later, I felt a bit more human.

            That night, I went to bed early and promised myself I'd get up at 5:30 again and be a responsible dog owner. Channell and I got up, we had a walk and by lunch time, I was dragging.

            Wanting to chew coffee grounds for the caffeine rush, I admitted the truth – I'm not a morning person.

            In my early days, I could stay up late for nights on end and never miss a beat. When I became a mom, the biological clock went out the window. I was governed by colicky infants and childhood nightmares with only the sun and moon as timepieces.

            When my boys were teens, my late-night biorhythms rejoiced. Teenagers go to bed late and get up late. Then the boys moved out but I was still answering to being at work at a specific time.   

            Over the years, I grew accustomed to getting up early and going to bed early and habits are hard to break. Even on the weekends, I get up at the same time and go to bed at the same time as I do during the week.

            As much as I hate to admit it, having a regular time to get up and go to bed is good practice. So when that alarm goes off at 5:30 tomorrow morning, I'll drag myself out of bed and take that dog for a walk.

            And hope the school's Coke machine's is well stocked.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.