A Little Night Music

It is 2:30 a.m.

Nothing good happens at 2:30 a.m. Except a meteor shower. Or maybe a flying dream.

And nothing says "on the downhill side of life" quite like a bad night's sleep. These are the nights punctuated not with dreams so much as with watery-thin lists that wisp their way through my head, one dull line melting into another.

Eventually, I sit up and reach down for a book, calling "uncle" quietly enough to let my sleeping dog lie.

Speaking of my sleeping dog, I wish Hobbes would sleep a little quieter. For a guy who never says much, he manages to accomplish quite a bit each night, huffing and puffing, whimpering and scratching his way through what I can only imagine are scenarios involving lusty poodles and overlooked tidbits from dinner.

Some nights, all I can hope for is a well-disciplined fart that possesses both timbre and good hang time, a lone cry calling out to my mate, hoping to instigate one of those strange and funny middle-of-the-night conversations.

Ah, but even Mark is breathing slowly right now, impervious to my mournful, pungent song. And, since 2:30 a.m. is the perfect time for confessions, it's possible that I hate him just a wee bit right now.

I should go outside, I suppose, and reacquaint myself with the night sky. The last few days having ushered in warm, drying winds, I'd probably be able to lay on our patio without fear of earthy dampness. But there is that confounded moon, all cocky and full tonight, all "look at me! look at me!" as it blots out its cousins Cassiopeia and Ursa Major. That's just not a show I'm willing to buy tickets for tonight.

2:30 a.m. is like Lasik surgery, Timothy Leary style. It skews everything. Makes you doubt what you are seeing, hearing. It alters even the most ordinary things, turning patio doors into sinister eyes, the gurgles of a fridge into the shufflings of an intruder.

I'd make a lousy nocturnal animal. I'd be like a blind chihuahua, starting at every rustle of leaves, certain they are signaling my imminent downfall.

Man, I'd really hate to be a chihuahua, for all kinds of reasons. For one, I could not handle a 200-beat resting heart rate. And, then, there are those eyeballs. Mine dry out enough as it is, and they are reasonably recessed in my head, where my brain does not take up too much space.

Then again, if I were a chihuahua, I would not be typing this, would I? No, I would be flat on my back, panting like a frat boy, my bug eyes searching unseen landscapes filled with feral felines and urine-soaked fire hydrants. I would be the very definition of a good night's sleep, yipping at the appropriate intervals, happy to be somewhere else.