The Rittenhouse Review

A Philadelphia Journal of Politics, Finance, Ethics, and Culture

Monday, April 19, 2004  

For Me, Not for Mildred

Oh, man, is it going to be a long night around here.

The temperature in Philadelphia easily topped 80 degrees Fahrenheit (26.7 Celsius) today, that for the second day in a row.

For Mildred, for any English bulldog really, that’s a high temperature, a temperature that causes considerable discomfort, and, in some cases, gives rise to serious health risks. (Before you get too worried, let me assure you multiple veterinarians have told me the structure of Mildred’s face, nose, mouth, and throat render her less vulnerable than most others of the breed to such risks.)

The real problem is that Mildred hasn’t slept a wink today -- not since she awoke at the leisurely hour of 11:00 a.m., followed by a late lunch at around three-ish. (I feel like I’m living with Linda Evangelista. You know, when she, Linda, I mean, was somebody.)

And so, Mildred has been awake now for 12 consecutive hours, something approaching a personal best (from my perspective), or a personal worst (from her own), most of those hours spent panting heavily, annoying the behoosis out of me and seriously impairing my concentration.

I know she’ll fall asleep soon. The early signs already are evident.

So what’s the problem?

Mildred snores. Heavily. Unrelentingly. Enthusiastically, even. Her snoring is not unlike that of the proverbial drunken sailor, a proverb -- and a proverbial personage -- about which I unfortunately have no first-hand knowledge. (Now, about the proverbial drunken Marine, if there is such a proverbial thing, well, that’s another story.)

Meanwhile, I’m dealing with a (hopefully temporary) bout of persistent insomnia. Mildred’s going to keep me up for hours, I just know it.

But I’ll still love her in the morning.

Wait a minute.

Aww, already, as I conclude this post, Mildred’s sleeping.

And snoring.

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