It's 3 a.m., I must be lonely

In a nightly homage to Rob Thomas and his old pals in Matchbox 20, Mercy has developed the mid-night ritual of a 3:30 a.m. barkfest. Some nights, she wanders outside to share her barking with the wide open sky and all neighbors, friend and foe. Some nights, she makes her pronouncements from the comfort of “her” sleeping couch.

Azure has earned enough trust that she is not relegated to her crate to sleep at night, and some times, Mercy’s barking must be loud enough for Azure to hear, so Azure stirs and joins in on the fun. The difference is that Mercy can hear me when I shout, “Hey, knock it off!” from the bedroom. Azure, being deaf, can’t and doesn’t.

We have modified sleeping arrangements here at the Farm, so Skeeter, Emmett and most nights, Coffee, sleep in the bedroom with us, safely behind a two-baby-gate pile-up in the doorway. This leaves Trinity the insistent snuggler, Mercy, and Azure on the non-bedroom side.

Whether we are fortunate enough to escape the 3:30 a.m. barking or not, we are always entreated to a 5 a.m. wake up call as Trinity stands outside the bedroom door, peering through the gates and calling out for her buddy, Emmett. Trinity doesn’t bark, so much as she articulates. Her communication is occasionally punctuated by a bark, but mostly it more closely resembles talking. There is a grumble, but not a growl. There are long, guttural sounds and variations in pitch and tone. And for a teacup Dane, she has one heckuva’ low voice which amuses me at all other times that are not 5 a.m.

Trinity begins exercising her voice at 5 a.m., seemingly directed at her best pal, Emmett, more so than us. Emmett then wakes up, begins nuzzling my face, arm, back, or any other part that is handy and exposed, and begins his responding whine.

If I were fluent in dog, I believe the conversation would go something like this:

T: Psssst [stage whisper] Emmett! You up?

E: [High pitched whine] Trin! Why do you always sneak up on me like that? You know I’m sardined in here between the bed and the wall.

T: Sorry. I missed Mercy’s 3 a.m. sentinel. Hey, are the bi-peds stirring? Check that one’s pulse, will you?

E: Well, let me ask them first. I don’t want to be accused of “bad touch.” [recommences high pitched whining until a hand pokes out to pet him]

T: So what’s the prognosis?

E: Alive - but trying to placate me with head patting.

T: Oh no! Don’t give in to that! Resist! Revolt! It is time for us to run and play!

E: I could try to turn my head and twist her arm until she gurgles. That usually works.

T: Try pushing your head up there some more. Your nose will fit under the covers. If that doesn’t work, place a paw on the bed.

E: Ah, here come her feet. Time for me to do my happy dance under them! Here we come, it is time to run!

Whereupon I grab my morning chore clothes, manipulate the baby gates in pig-chute fashion to
shepard bedroom dogs into the living room while keeping living room dogs out. On my
way up the hall, I slip into the bathroom, where I am joined by four dogs, all
happy and dancing and chattering their various morning incantations.

And so begins another glorious day at MisFit Farm.