Grawn Greeting

Grawn.  My word for gray dawn. For anyone that has read my writings much, you know I often mash up words to make my own. It drives my spell heckler crazy.

This foggy picture gives you an idea of the fog that is lifting.
The tree in the foreground is less than 100 feet in front of the
tree in the background. 

A dense fog envelopes the dawn. Instead of a sunrise, we have an unsettling gray haze. The train whistle of a passing locomotive sounds eerie.  It's ghoulish sound lends an ethereal otherworldliness to the quiet hush of this Sunday morn.

I step outside to snap a picture. I leave the door open, but before stepping out, I give puppy, who is ensconced in his cat bed, the "stay" command.

He dutifully climbs out of his lair to come see what I am up to, but while taking pictures, I tell him to stay. The door is wide open, he doesn't have to obey me, but I am trying much harder each day to work on his training.

I hear a thump behind me. I turn to look, puppy is gone. I step back inside, to learn the thump was him springing himself off the floor to my bed, back to the corner, where his little fleece lined cat bed is parked on top of my electric mattress warmer. We used it last night, like we do any night the temperatures drop below 65F (18C) degrees. It is still on, I don't turn it off until puppy arises.

Go ahead and laugh. My Caribbean blood is still trying to adjust to weather temperatures below 70F (21C). My scrawny puppy gets cold easily. Like me. Something odd, we have in common.

I smile. Puppy obeyed me,  deciding he was cold, went back to bed. He often sleeps one or two hours longer than I do.

Petting his head, rubbing his belly, I reward him for being a good little doggy. He looks cold, so I toss part of the afghan over him.  He seems pleased. Even though he seemingly hates the camera, I capture a photo of him, wrapped in the afghan.

Little Wolfman Harley, enjoys the warmth of being
snuggled in his bed with the afghan piled up over him.

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