By the Dawn’s Early Light

There is a pick-pick-picking at the screen as I come down the dark staircase into the kitchen. It’s our cat, Bowie, his razor claws making work of the metal mesh, rat-a-tat-tat! I make a low “Psst! Psst!” to shoo him away, but he remains determined. Through the dim morning light, I walk over to see what he’s up to. There has been a skunk smelling up our front door area and I hope it’s not back. As I shut the window to fend off Mr. Skunk’s fumes, I see instead a tiny tree frog stuck to the outside of the screen. His little pads spread between the metal squares as he makes his way upward and away from the deadly snares coming at him from the shadows.

“Come with me, Handsome Jack,” I say to Bowie, using one of his nicknames, lifting his formidable 18 pounds over to the spot where he usually crunches his morning treats. As soon as I rattle the little kibbles, he forgets the nimble mystery creature stuck to the screen. The dogs are up now too. I hear them plop off the couches (perfectly sized dog beds for lengthy lurchers) in the TV room upstairs. Their long toes making stretchy, scratchy noises and they peer at me from the landing before they pad down the stairs, taking the last three steps in the first leap of the day.

Zoe is first to me, her long snout nuzzling my hands; she’s wiggly and excited for the day to begin. Her paws stretch out to touch my feet, and I hop a little to avoid my toes being victim to her enthusiasm. Zoe is just about three now – a pandemic puppy. We are pretty much all she knows. She greets me and loves me up with all the excitement she had on day one. Blixy comes up behind, patient and next in line, her sweet almond-shaped eyes looking up for a scratch too. At over nine, our older girl’s muzzle and chest are getting whiter by the month. She moves more slowly now but can still put the chase on Zoe if she’s acting out too much. Over to the janky sliding door, and they’re off for their morning duties outside.

Time for breakfast and a coffee. The house is still quiet and the lights are still off. I prefer it this way – no need to startle my eyes too quickly. I relish in the sounds of the morning instead. As the espresso machine gets some fresh water, I can hear a few sputters from inside, telling me it’s waking up too. Ah, that first cup. My toast pops up briskly. I open the squeaky door of the fridge (must fix that) to grab some almond milk and give the container a shake. It’s a ritual for me, this routine of sounds here in the half-light. By the time my toast is ready, coffee topped to perfection, the dogs are back at the door, wagging in synch, Zoe making a little huff, huff to let me know she’s had a few laps. Blixy simply wags, sits down for her treat, and retreats to the soft couch upstairs.

The sounds of the house are getting stronger now. Zoe and Bowie are up, down, eating, exploring, and Blixy is woofing back into her dream state. My seedy toast and crunchy peanut butter are satisfyingly loud in my ears.

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I’m reminded of mornings growing up – the sounds just as predictable as now, but with little differences. Then it was the whirr of the minutes changing on the electronic alarm clock instead of the dulcet tones of our devices vibrating on chargers. It was the percolator hissing on the stove instead of the beeps of a fancy coffee machine on the counter. My dad grew up drinking instant coffee, and when I was a kid, he still felt it was the best around. He’d stir the molten dark syrup rapidly in his favourite mug (Clink! Clink! Clink!), then go and sweep all the change off his dresser into his pockets (Ching! Ching! Ching!), grab his keys and head out the door. My mom would be up also, coming in from chores and stomping the mud, or early snow, from her boots before feeding some logs into the woodstove to warm up the house. “Have you had breakfast?” she’d ask.

These days my son, Adrian, is often up as early as I am, getting ready for work or college, just as I was with my mom after my dad left for work. Adrian isn’t surprised to find me sitting in the pale dawn light, listening to the morning ticks and tones, munching on my toast. It’s a nice routine that tells us all is right in the world – a mixture of comforting sounds you hope you can listen to forever. As the first rays of sunshine creep across the window sills, he gives me a smile and quietly greets the pets, rubbing their ears and offering them a second round of treats. “Have time for breakfast?” I ask.