These prophetic words were spoken to me by Veek as she and the kids pulled away from the house on their way to the north Texas area for some college tours. I imagined her thinking “I have to drag these kids up to Dallas for three days while he sits there in his underwear and eats chips watching TV.”

[In the spirit of full disclosure, last night I did eat some chips and watch my beloved Sox get swept by the Yankees, enduring taunting text messages from Basile the whole time. But by 10:30 the game's outcome was ordained and I decided to turn in and get some rest in preparation for a busy week ahead.]

Fat chance.

10:30 p.m. – Dogs went out for their last “business time” of the evening. Brought them in at 10:45 after Bella (the dog we’re taking care of while she meets the Australian rabies program requirements) and Fenway (our 5 month old puppy) started barking like crazy, as they always do. Put Bella and Fenway into their respective crates, brought Scout into the bedroom with me, and laid my head on the pillow.

11:30 p.m. – Fenway whining to go out. I get up, let just her out, and wait by the door for her to do her “business time” and come back in. She appears out of the darkness and lies down in the grass about 15 feet from the porch. “Come on, Fenway, let’s go back to bed.”…. “Come one girl, come inside.”…. Nothing. Just a stone faced puppy looking at me and not budging. I give up and just close the door, and go lie down for a bit while she stays outside, knowing full well that I can’t go back to sleep because she will soon enough start barking either at a random noise or to announce her desire to come inside.

11:40 p.m. – There it is. “Woof.” “Woof.” “Woof!” I trudge to the porch and she’s sitting right there. These were “Let me in.” barks, not “Hey, what’s that random noise?” barks. Back to her kennel she goes, and I shuffle down to the bedroom muttering.

12:43 a.m. – “Whine.” “Whine.” “Whine!” You’ve got to be kidding me. I fall out of bed, and go to Fenway’s kennel to let her out. She fairly bolts to the door, this is serious. We do the dance again. I wait. I call her. She appears but lies down in the grass instead of coming in. This time, being the more advanced species, I devise a plan. “Scout! Here, Scout!” Our 9 year old comes bounding along, ever hoping to please me. “Go outside Scout.” She readily agrees and runs out. I see her and Fenway in the yard, sniffing and milling about. I give it about three minutes, open the door and start calling for them to return. Of course, Scout comes immediately, but no sign of Fenway. My cunning plan has not worked. Plan B is to use the training aid – a clicker we use to signify successful completion of a command, followed by a treat. “Come on Fenway!” [click] It works! The Pavlovian response is validated, as Fenway comes loping to the door, hoping for the post-click treat her brain has convinced her is coming.

Good luck with that, Fenway. You’ve woken me twice now, there’s no way in doggie heaven I’m giving you a treat at this point. Get in that kennel and shut the heck up.

6:20 a.m. – “Whine.” “Whine.” “Whine!” Ugh. I stare at the clock, do a quick calculation, and decide [not like I have a choice anyway] that less than six hours of quiet is what I’m getting tonight. I let her and Bella out of their kennels, put them outside, and go lie down, awaiting the inevitable. “Yip!’ Yip!” “Yip!” “Woof.” “Woof.” “Woof!” Obviously they’ve found some important reason to announce their presence to every neighbor within a few hundred yards, and seeing as it’s 6:20 in the morning, their voices carry loud and clear. I hustle to the door and call them back inside.

This time, due to the routine well-established by Veek’s early morning walking, they both come immediately and await their morning repast. I briefly consider starving them both for the three days, but relent and fill three bowls with kibble, clean and refill the big water bowl, and head back to the bedroom for what I hope is 30 minutes of ‘snooze’ time.

Ummm, no.

Within a few minutes, I hear a sound. Not a normal sound. A sound which says “You’d better go find out what that sound is.” A five month old puppy with a history of chewing things not intended to be chewed demands vigilance, so off I go again. I find Fenway in the kitchen, ignoring her bowl of food but furiously tearing into something. What is that?! I go up to her, grab her muzzle and pry open her jaws. It’s a five dollar bill. Great, now my dog is eating money in a quite literal sense.

If only she were exhibiting the signs of becoming a canine ATM, but no, obviously someone had left the bill lying around and she decided it would be a better use of her time than actually eating the expensive puppy chow carefully placed in her dish next to the clean and crisp bowl of water. Whatever.

6:45 a.m. – I give up. I’m not going to get any more rest this morning. The three dogs are in the kitchen/family room playing. Fenway is chasing Bella back and forth between the two rooms. Their paws scrabble on the hard floors, the panting is audible. I may as well just start my day.

I do the dog training, having each dog sit, lie down and jump up. [Click] – treat. [Click] – treat.

I empty the dishwasher and drainboard, and clean the few dirty dishes, and fold the laundry from the dryer.

I take the final step to end any hope of morning rest by turning on my computer and start reading mail.

“Enjoy the peace and quiet.” Yeah, right.