Shut up. I wasn't done for the night. It so happens that when it rains, it pours, and when I want to write, I want to write.
Around-abouts, oh, say, 3am, I was coming out of decent REM mode, groggily in that stage where you're finally getting your body back under control, when I caught a whiff of some awful stench. Poo, it smelled like. I came fully awake, sat straight up, and looked around in the dark, sniffing madly, trying to SUCK the sulfurous smell into my nasal cavities. I was thinking that perhaps the dog had made a mess of her cage, but before I moved to investigate, I looked toward where Sir sleeps, and could not for the life of me make him out under the fifty blankets I'd piled on the bed when the temp dropped below 50.
Maybe I'm, I don't know, mad, but I convinced myself he was cleaning up dog shit. However, I still wanted to be sure, so what did I do? I GROPED his side of the bed, grabbing a big chunk of Sir in the meantime, who was, after all, asleep under the blankets.
At that time, the smell dissipated; I got up to see if I'd made UP the smell, and indeed, the dog was quietly sleeping in the bat cave. And in the meantime, Sir, being fed up with my shenanigans and looney-tunes-ness, stalked to the couch to sleep off the rest of his hangover.
All I can conclude is that I'm crazy.