This morning around 4 am, I was dragged out of a deep sleep by the frenzied barking of the Wonder Dog and the dulcet tones of the Old Boy yelling, “Shut up, Rex! COME ‘ERE!” The dawg “came ‘ere” but he didn’t shut up. He bounced up and down on my legs, still barking and whimpering. As soon as I twitched, he was off the bed and racing around the lounge room like a lunatic, yelping as if his fur was on fire.

I waited for the Old Boy to do the manly, knight-on-white-horse thing and leap to our defence.  He chose to remain where he was. So…I stumbled into the bathroom to retrieve my glasses and then peaked out our window. I didn’t see anyone  trying to break in, neither was there a bear at our front door. The WD was still in attack mode, so I cautiously opened the front door. If there were any burglars, they probably took one look at glamorous me –  clothed in a tired old nightie; my chest a study in mountains and valleys (I don’t wear the fake boob to bed) – and they  probably thought, “It’s not worth it. If those people had any money, there’s no way they’d leave that poor woman in that condition.” They would have then moved on to richer pickings.

I had a quick look (from the safety of my porch) at the neighbours’ houses, but no one was on fire. Aliens hadn’t landed in our street. Foreigners weren’t parachuting in to take over the town. Not a creature was stirring, not even a cat. I glared at the dawg. He was still bouncing on stiffened legs and huffing and puffing. I took one step and, encouraged by movement, he went racing down to the back door.

Fool that I am, I let him outside and checked the back yard. Rex raced around the circuit like a dawg with a mission: down to the back end of the lawn, bounce on stiffened legs, bark; race up the other end, near the spa, bounce and bark; around the carport and under the outdoor table setting, stop, bounce and bark… He completed the circuit five times. Meanwhile I sniffed: no fire. I looked: no intruder. I muttered: you idiot.

For a moment I stared out into the night. There was a soft luminescent glow around the street lights, which made me think of those French movies set in the 1940s, with piano accordion music and people in trench coats. It was mystical yet peaceful and rather beautiful. The WD stopped to pee on a veranda post and then, his job done, he pranced hippity-skippity inside and took himself to bed.

This morning I weighed up my options: turn WD into a small, white, very hairy cushion cover or give it breakfast. I’d like to think my decision was based on grace and mercy, but the truth is that breakfast was the easier choice. I sipped my coffee, my head throbbing and studied the pooch. He gazed adoringly at me, obviously still pleased with himself for saving us from invisible pirates, marauding rats or whatever it was that stirred him into Chuck Norris-mode. If only he could read my mind; he’d be hiding under the bed until Easter!

Although this wasn’t the Wonder Dog’s finest moment, this morning – now that coffee has been imbibed and I’m recovering my sanity – I’ve realised something very important: how blessed am I? The night was peaceful! I’m not huddled in a basement waiting for the next missile to land. I’m not hiding from death squads or forces intent on incarcerating me because of my ethnicity, religion or political views. My community is safe, friendly and peaceful, even if my neighbours are currently thinking dark, murderous thoughts about certain small dogs.

Gotta be happy with that.