230am, the dog’s nose a wet Q-tip on my ear, his drunk-carny’s breath. I rise, stumble to the patio door, let him out. Waiting, I realize my right foot is wet. I panic:  blood? Cat vomit. I stumble to the kitchen, use paper towels and water until I’m pretty sure my foot can touch our sheets again. The dog leads the way to the bedroom. I burrow under the comforter. Toss and turn. The kits scale my body, even when I switch sides, one touches a paw to my eye. I rise and stumble to the laundry room, fill cat bowls, mutter screw it, serve them a can, too. I stumble to bed, burrow. And obsess on the sequel I’m writing. 4am. I should just rise for the day, brew coffee, write, but even 5 is better than 4. I toss and turn. Big Boy bangs on the front door. I rise, let him in. He lopes by me, his creamsicle coat a beacon, he is that fabulous. I escort him to the laundry room and listen to him eat and purr simultaneously. It’s closer to 5, but I burrow anyway and plummet into a dream in which I am Mary Louise Parker in a movie with Tom Selleck who is helpless on a runaway gurney and I launch onto a gurney of my own and am about to fix everything, but my husband’s hand thumps my stomach. He mumbles something I will never ask him to clarify. 8am. We rise. I make coffee. Our son stumbles into the kitchen. I make pancakes. We’re going house hunting and I’m writing this before we leave because if I don’t write something, anything, I’ll forget why it is I am cranky. I’ll forget to catch myself when I snap an order, forget to apologize for not remembering: If I don’t write at all during the day, even if I’m blocked, 230am will torture me. Not to mention the pets.