The Olympics should be held in Britain every time.
Every dog owner would thank the IOC.
Finnigan gets me out of bed as 5:54 a.m. every day, no matter the weather. He is a stealth dog; he is able to use every single square of the bed for a surprise attack. He starts at the foot of the bed, notices me stirring or turning over. He stands over me like some sort of malevolent spirit, hovering, watching. If I am awake, I can see his evil little white soul patch which is mostly grey but lights up pure white when he's being evil.
Then he starts boxing me like a kangaroo, letting out a short, high-pitched moan.
When that doesn't work, he slithers between us and begins to lick my face.
He is not deterred if I push him down; he just goes to the other side of the bed and sits on Gordie who snarks him. A dog fight ensues.
By this time, I cannot stand it any longer. I'm up.
He's out the door briefly, then bounds back in for a ball of food. I feed Gordie, then give him another ball. Half an hour out in the yard and he's ready to come in to wake up the dog walker who seems always to be oblivious to this morning dance.
I am exhausted.
I don't know what to do with myself.
So I turn on the television and it's PRIME TIME afternoon Olympics.
This makes me feel a bit better.
Why does the Olympics have to be only two weeks?