Monday

                Most of the house is quiet at Rosefield farm in the morning.  “Most” is a tricky word.  If you brush most of your teeth then you haven’t done a good job.  If you washed most of the dish then the dish is still dirty.  Often the word most is equated to good enough.  This morning most isn’t good enough.  In a childless house there is really no reason to wake up before 7:00.  My alarm is set for 7:15 with the expectation of a push of the snooze button.  I start like a freight train in the morning.  I huff and blow steam, it takes a while for my engine to get going, nine more minutes is typically enough to get the coal in the engine and the fire of my brain starts to roll.  The farmer stereotype of waking at dawn is lost on Rosefield.  If I had my way we would work past dusk every night but wake with the sun high in the sky.  We like the night.  I like that our farm can be worked in the streetlights.  So we stay up late and wake late when we can.  With no kids in the house the early morning bustle that would usually be present is mostly silent.  Mostly.

                My 7:15 alarm had competition before it vibrated on my nightstand.  The obnoxiously angelic strumming of a harp had the opening act of an orange cat.  I could hear her thump up against our hollow core bedroom door. “Ow, Rowr, Ow,” was what she had to say.  My alarm went off and I hit the snooze to steal my nine minutes, to put coal in my fire.  It’s Monday, this train will be slow today.  “Ow, Rowr, Rowr, ROWR,” and thump, thump, thump.  The cat calls like a conductor insisting that I get up, that it’s time to go.  Cursing I toss of my blanket, I remind Carly of my love for her and I open the door to my orange nemesis.  Her eyes are brownish copper in her head like two pennies fixed on me, she walks ahead and then lingers, walks ahead and then lingers.  What once was the call of a conductor is now more the screams of a junkie.  I open the door to the garage where the cats are fed and she yowls and moans.  As I pour her food she purrs.  Her tongue laps up the cat food selfishly and I can hear the moisture in her mouth.  Her teeth crunch the food and clack against the plastic bowl.  I hate her.  My snooze goes off and I’m reminded that my nine minutes have been stolen by this damn cat.

                As I walk into the kitchen I set down my phone so I can let Harvey out of his new kennel.  Unlike his occasional morning pacing he seems at peace behind the closed door.  I swoop up his dish and squeeze the latch on his door.  Opening the fridge I scoop a generous portion for my obedient dog.  His long hair is brushing up against my naked leg and I feel the cold of his nose touch the back of my thigh.  The cool of the refrigerator and the nose to the back of the leg hardly wakes me up.  In his normal ceremony of “sit, go” the dog is fed.  A much more gracious recipient than his cat sister.  Damn cat.  My brain is a little closer to awake and I think of something clever for Facebook.  Where the hell is my phone?  Why didn’t I pee before feeding the stupid cat?  Or the dog?  My phone!  Top of the fridge, no.  On the breadboard, no.  Kitchen counter, no.  I can feel the frantic feeling of needing to pee after not going for about seven hours.  It is intense.  What about the stovetop, no.  Dear God please don’t let me pee my pants!!!  I look on top of the pantry and snatch up my phone.  Dashing to the bathroom I get some time to myself.

                After a shower I am ready to go.  There is no coffee, no paper, and no toast for me.  I don’t want a farmer’s breakfast; there is no reason to linger.  One more kiss for Carly and the other two cats follow me out to the garage where the orange one sits smugly over a food dish that is over halfway consumed.  I’m still disgusted.  The house is no longer mostly silent.  It is fully awake.  The outside animals, probably awake since dawn, have seen the motion of the house.  I can hear the birds before I reach the door.  Our big white duck no longer restrains her “gup, gup, gups,” exploding into a “QUACK ACK ACK ACK ACK ACK!!!”  Scooping a big scoop of poultry feed the selfish orange cat thinks she is being fed again.  She is wrong.  I flip the feed onto the ground and half a dozen birds descend on the ground around me gobbling up the pellet intensely.  Noise is everywhere.   All of the cats having eaten have wandered into the yard; the birds are making the sounds of eating while mixing in squawks and clucks.  To make certain they are not forgotten the definitive thump of a rabbit foot pounds the bottom of the hutch.  Again I return to the garage.  Again the orange cat thinks she is being fed.  A scoop of rabbit feed is distributed amongst hutches and cages.  It is finally done and the farm hums with life.  In a few hours Carly will get up and do this whole process again.  The farm wakes us up.  It makes us move.  It hums.  Silence is a precious commodity.

                People go to work to feed their family.  I feed more animals before I go to work than most people do all week.  It is common vernacular for someone to be known as a breadwinner or someone that brings home the bacon.  Feeding is important, it creates a bond and having dependents creates the appropriate pressure to work hard and provide.  It is humbling to be in charge of feeding the house each morning.  I don’t only buy the feed, but I put it in front of all their mouths.  It gives me something to work for.  The kids aren’t like them.  They are autonomous, partners in the family that take their responsibility when they are home.  I love that about them.  I respect them for that.  It isn’t like that for the animals.  The animals depend on us, on me.  I’ll wake up for their maintenance.  I’ll do it gladly.  Except for the orange cat.  I still hate her.