Drawing a Blank

It was three-thirty-three this morning, and I was way, way down in the delta of peaceful sleep when my bladder found me there and said, "I have to go pee-pee." Once back in bed, a voice inside my head said, "What's the name of that country music singer on The View?" 

"Oh, I know," I answered, "but I don't want to think right now. I'd like to go back to sleep. Could we discuss this later?" 

"He's married to that country music singer, Miranda, Miranda Lambsomething. Think! Think!" 

"I know, I know, but I'm sleeping right now. I know who you mean, but I don't want to think."

"Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Oh, come on! You know!"

I tried to ignore the nagging question but now I was wide awake. I turned over, thinking a reposition would help me find my way back to the delta.

"It starts with a 'B' and has only one syllable. Bla Bla Bla something. Oh, don't just lie there feigning sleep. You know his name!"

I did know who it was but I was drawing a blank. It's my memory. Not so good anymore.

"Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? I know you know."

I turned over on my back and starred at the ceiling. Seeing my restlessness as an opportunity for a belly rub or a snack or a trip outdoors, Maggie walked up the full length of my body--stepping on pain pressure points as she went--until her nose was touching mine. "What's it gonna be?" she said in doggy talk. "A belly rub, a snack, the great outdoors, or am I gonna have to lick your face off?"

I love her; I really do. I think of her as a best friend, but she gets on my nerves sometimes. It's disconcerting to think that my dog is smarter than I am, has a much better memory, and has me wrapped around her fingerclaws. But at three-forty-five in the morning the last thing I wanted was to dwell on was my inferiority complex.

The little hand was on the four and the big one was pointing to twelve when Maggie and I returned from our walk. Sleep was out of the question for me, but Maggie had no trouble finding her sweet spot next to Tom. Within milliseconds she was sound asleep.

"Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Who is it?"

It was obvious the question would nag me until I came up with the answer. I had only one choice. I had to ask a friend.

She loves me; she really does, but she doesn't like to be bothered when she's sleeping. It gets on her nerves.

"Sorry to bother you, Punkin, but I need to ask you a question." I whispered.

"Oh, for goodness sakes. It's Blake Shelton, okay? Now, can I get some sleep. Tom and I have a ball to chase later."