Five More Minutes

Steven blinks. He looks at me, then his food bowl. He looks at me again and sits down. He tilts his head as if wondering why I’m not doing anything. Why I haven’t told him he’s a good boy and can go ahead and eat his breakfast. 

It’s just past noon, but there isn’t a hint of sunlight peeking through the blackout curtains. We woke up a lot later than I hoped, and by “we” I mean “I,” because Steven had been nudging me with his nose since my first alarm. That was more than two hours ago. 

I don’t know how I feel so cold on a summer afternoon. I should probably let some light in and enjoy the bit of sun we get in Calgary. Maybe later. Probably not.

His long, fluffy tail starts to wiggle in the way it does when he’s trying his hardest to contain his excitement. He straightens his back and looks up at me. 

He’s working for his food. I had asked him to wait. For what? Nothing. We’re just working on “wait” as a cue. This is part of our morning ritual—except I guess it’s not morning anymore.

He watches me intently as I walk to the kitchen to turn the kettle on. He pivots in place, making sure he doesn’t miss the cue he’s been waiting for.

I smile at him and nod, “Go eat.”

He sprints to his food bowl, which isn’t more than a couple of steps in front of him. It’s comical how he seems to move so fast while hardly moving at all. His nails, lightly scratching and tapping against the floor. So much commotion for so little movement. He’s funny. He also thinks he’s good at faking calmness.

For Christmas last year, my little sister got me a shirt that read “WAIT LANG” in big bold letters. I don’t remember saying it now, but apparently this phrase reminds her of me from when we were younger. 

I sat with that for a while. Thinking about what it said about me. About how she saw me. How I seem from someone else’s view. 

Maybe I always wanted more time.

Always slow to move. Refusing to wake up in the morning to get ready for school. 

“Five more minutes.”

“But ate, it’s been 30.”

As I write this, I have an empty bowl in front of me. This morning’s oatmeal has dried and crusted into the glass bowl. I should put it in the sink and soak it in warm water. I will. In a bit. Later. Soon.

For now, the bowl continues to taunt me as the dried-up oatmeal goo starts to lift from the bowl as if to say, “For fuck’s sake, get me off the bowl!”

Sometimes I think about all the things I say I’ll do. All the things I sincerely believe I want to do. One day. Someday. 

I have a list. No. I have more than a few lists spanning multiple notebooks over the years. Running lists of hobbies I want to try, places I’d like to see, personal goals, and big dreams. There’s the black Moleskine that I only just let go before moving last summer. A bright and aggressively pink planner that I spilt coffee on the first week I got it. A green Leuchtturm that was only ever half used, put away in a drawer I never open. And now, a blue Dingbats where I miss every other weekly attempt at bullet journalling. 

Now here I am again, mulling things over, thinking about planning to start my somedays.

Steven comes up to me expectantly. He’s finished his breakfast, had some water, and now masterfully dries his face against the blanket on my lap. 

He’s telling me he’s ready for a walk.

Wait lang.

“Just wait, okay?” I say against the top of his head. 

He rests his chin on my lap, looking up at me through his eyebrows. I pet him and he sighs. A loud, forceful exhale through his nose. Our trainer tells me this is just him regulating himself and working on settling, but I always imagine this is him being exasperated with me as I test his patience.

I bet he doesn’t understand what he’s been waiting for. Why I’ve been delaying our walk. Why my heart rate and breathing change as if we’ve already gone for a long, brisk walk.

He lifts his head and walks to his mat. He picks up his favourite toy, an octopus we creatively call “Squid”, ready to settle. 

“Okay—” His head lifts, and he drops Squid. His tail starts to swing from side to side. Before I could get the question out, he was up and ready, body facing the door while he looks back at me, “do you want to go outside?”

Steven turns back and circles me. He’s herding me out the door. Again.