3:17 a.m on Woods Avenue

Most days, an elderly dog with a history of seizures requires very little of a person. Mostly, a few square feet of unused space, where he can lay on his lumpy, discount dog bed with a threadbare blanket tossed across his bony shoulders.

3:17 on a Thursday morning is not most days, though.

The uneven tinkling of elder dog paws always requires attention at 3:17 a.m.

Unsure of what roused him--dreams of fresh cat turds, a broken synapse in the brain or the rumbling insistence of his own innards--Hobbes becomes a force to be reckoned with, when day has yet to nudge out night.

And so, early this morning (or late last night, depending on your perspective), I shook off my own dreams (not of cat turds, mind you) to address the real or imagined needs of my dog. Ultimately, it seems, I cannot abide the idea of a confused dog tumbling to his death down darkened wood stairs in the middle of the night.

Haunted by that imagined downward tumble, I blindly scoured the floor next to my bed, hoping to find a pair of slippers and some pajama bottoms. I found neither.

We both half stumbled down the stairs and I let Hobbes out back to address whatever needs required addressing. Clad only in my "i > u" nerd shirt and pink undies (I know, I know--shocking!), I huddled in the first-floor bathroom, waiting for Hobbes to do his own business.

Apparently, I waited a tad too long, for he was nowhere to be seen, when I cracked open the back door. Half cursing under my putrid morning breath, I wended my way to the front door, guided only by the light cast off of my shockingly pink undies. I stuck my head out the door, having spied Hobbes sniffing at the garbage can by the curb.

"psssssst! pssssst! hoooooobbbbbbbbes!" I half whispered.

It was as though he had never heard that name "Hobbes." And I was dead to him, replaced, instead, with the scent of some unnamed animal's musky urine, which had his full attention.

There is no way to silently glide up wood stairs in a house that was constructed in another century. But I did my best. Just as I did my best to locate a @*#! pair of pants and some slippers for what would be my early, early morning outing to kill my dog.

Back downstairs, I fumbled with the shorts I'd found, putting them on inside out, long pockets hanging bizarrely from my motherly hips. Managed to put my slippers on the wrong feet, too, but I didn't really care at this point, so intent was I to retrieve my lucky-to-be-alive dog. I opened the front door and began to step out.

"Your dog just went up your drive, ma'am."

It is stunning that vocal chords can vibrate at 3:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning (yes, some time had passed).

"Oh, uh, yeah. Thank you," I uttered to the bundled-up black man who was walking down the middle of my street. At 3:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning.

While I was pretty sure that he was not there to ravage my shabby-chic clad, half-century old body, I was slightly weirded out by the exchange.

As I'm sure was he. God knows how he eventually shook the image of me, bra-less, in t-shirt and inside-out shorts, with men's fluffy slippers on my feet.

I found Hobbes out back, still alive. At least for now. I let him in but most certainly did NOT reward him with a kibble of any kind. Instead, I left him downstairs, where he could stew in his clinky old dog claws.

Somehow, my bed had managed to hang onto a bit of my body heat, tucked away under the covers. Not that I would be sleeping again.

For the next ten minutes, I went through all the stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression, . . . finally settling on acceptance, which led me here. To the computer's keyboard. To try to make sense out of why I am wide awake at what is now 4:48 a.m., while Hobbes blissfully snores upstairs, no recollection of what it was that woke him long ago.