Every Morning

Well, summer on the ranch is in full gear.

This week is going to be all about shipping cattle, hauling hay, tamping posts, and trying to get more than five hours of sleep every night and remember one another’s names every morning. Please light a candle for us.

And here’s how it will go every morning: Marlboro Man will get up somewhere between 4:30 and 4:45. He’ll brush his teeth, wash his face, and whatever else he needs to do, then I’ll hear him but pretend that I’m asleep in an attempt to deny the reality I’m in. Eventually, after receiving a couple of pokes to my ribs, I’ll get up and make sure our four kids are awake while Marlboro Man and the dogs get the horses to the barn. Then, after locating missing spurs, belts, boots, and gloves, I’ll finally get all the kids out the door so they can go ship cattle, then I’ll make my bed, get in a load of laundry, make myself a cup of iced coffee, read my Bible, and start organizing myself for the cooking I’m going to have to do in order to ensure the machine will keep moving forward, while trying to figure out how to squeeze in a trip to one city to see about one of the kids’ sore knee and a trip to another city to see about one of the sore kids’ wisdom teeth, while finishing up the transcript for my oldest child’s college applications, while starting to order books and curricula for our new homeschool year, which is a mere 5 weeks away, while planning for the new bunch of Food Network shows we’re about to start shooting, while trying to remember to go turn off the water in 20 minutes or so so the trough doesn’t overflow.

Then, like clockwork, the dogs will appear at the door. They will have done a full day’s work already and will be longing for some rest after all their exertion.

In their minds.

“Let us in.”

“Let us in?”

“We’re so weary.”

“LET US IN!!!!!!!”

And then I’ll let them in.

And then I’ll do it again the next day.

And the next day.

And the next.

Bassets are nothing if not routine.