4:00 a.m. The Shay abode was attacked by a wild herd of maurading monsters. I know this because Molly, our guard dog (aka Yorkie)
exploded in a fit, barking her shrill, I’m-risking-my-life-to-save-the-world yap and rushing from the front door to the back door in a dead run. (Her tiny tootsies beat our wood floor like a drum when she’s excited.)
4:03 a.m.–Molly scaled the stairs in record time (she practices everytime anyone goes upstairs and usually does a victory spin at the top when she beats us) and flew into our bedroom, where she spun and barked and spun and barked.
I fell out of bed, put something on and stumbled down the stairs to the back door where the mean hound was whirling like a dervish.
Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak
Ten minutes later she came back in the house, but didn’t settle down at all. She patrolled downstairs, then went up to make sure things were all right before coming down to start another circuit.
When I go to work, I fully expect to find a pile of wild monster bodies, lying in the front yard.
I’ll send pictures.