How to wake a man
7 July 2009
I lay in morning half-light. The room was still, empty.
Just four walls and a bed in the shade of the curtains. The
night before, my dog had been nervous, afraid of something,
in need of comfort. I had let him sleep on the floor at the
end of the bed, wrapped in a cool sheet. He had been still
and quiet, just the rise and fall of his breath breaking
our shared silence.
In the half-light, I drifted in and out of the room. Ten
minutes earlier, my alarm had gone off and I had switched
it to snooze. When it rang again, I groped for it with my
hand and switched it off. I fell back to the pillow, aware
only slightly of the day outside the window. I wallowed in
encroaching sleep, sliding my arms and legs under the duvet
in pleasure.
My dog had other ideas. Two alarms had awoken in him
thoughts of breakfast, walks, squirrels to chase, bones to
snatch from pavements, dogs at which to bark. He had the
day within him and he didn't want to miss a moment of it. I
heard his wagging tail against the radiator, clanging
mournfully. He scuffed over a dropped newspaper and walked
gingerly alongside the bed. I imagined him looking at me
over the side, wondering whether he should jump up and lick
me on the face. I threw an arm out over the side to stop
him and stroked the top of his head.
He was not satisfied. He licked my hand and wrist, his hot
tongue rasping my skin, and began to shuffle impatiently.
But I was too tired to think of getting up and giving him
his breakfast. I fell away from him and into sleep.
And then I was awake. Jolted awake so completely that I
could not conceive that I had, until an instant before,
been drifting into deep sleep. I was confused and
disorientated. But then I realised.
My dog had clearly had enough of my dozing, and it was
obvious that licking was not going to keep me awake. I
don't know where he got the idea, as he had never done this
before, but he had nibbled my hand with his tiny front
teeth. And not just anywhere on my hand. He had nibbled me
in a place I had hardly noticed – the small valley between
the heel of my palm and the base of my thumb. I inspected
the skin. It looked no different from the rest of my hand.
I scratched the surface and it was surprisingly sensitive,
almost ticklish, even to my touch.
I stared down at my dog. He was standing by the bed, gazing
expectantly. His tail wagged furiously in the shaded air. I
thought I could see in his large, round eyes a glint of
satisfaction. I smiled and pulled back the duvet as I stood
and walked from the room, my dog running around my feet as
he led me to his bowl.