It was the morning after the Drunken Debauchery that was our trip to Milwaukee. Needless to say, we got to bed late and waking up was not something on either of our To Do Lists for the day.
I was bundled tightly under 14 pounds of down comforter, and he was bundled just as tightly next to me. I had been dozing in and out of consciousness for a bit, but suddenly I noticed he became rather restless.
"Kri-tta," he moaned, so pathetically I thought someone shot his dog. "Kri-ttaaaa."
(Side note: any one who knows me, loves me, birthed me or is related to me, calls me Kritta.)
I opened one eye, considered the situation, and seriously pondered pretending to be asleep. I re-shut my eye. He must be hungover. He wants water. He wants food. He wants something. And what I wanted was to finish sleeping. But he was relentless.
"Krittaaaaaaa." (Seriously, people. His dog. Someone shot his dog).
I could no longer ignore the pleas. Clearly something was wrong. He had cancer. He'd gone blind in the night. "Yes?" I asked, hesitantly.
"I'm up." He replied. Quite simply. As in, awake. As in, Hi, I'm awake, someone help me because I might die.
I looked at him. "You're up?"
"Yes," he continued, matter-of-factly. "And I don't want to be."
And these are the reasons why I continue to love him in the manner to which he is accustomed.