Sleep
By Max and Bubba
Max: (jumping up on the sofa) Hey, wake up.
Bubba: (opening one eye) Huh
. . . Wha . . .? Why?
Max: Because Mom says we
sleep too much before bedtime and not enough at night. She says she’s exhausted
because we keep getting her up to go outside with the flashlight and then just
mill around till she lets us come back in.
Bubba: (closing the eye she
opened) That would be my problem because . . . ?
Max: Because she might get
really cranky and take her pillow into the guest room and close the door and not
get up to give us our breakfast when it’s time.
Bubba: (opening both eyes)
You had me at breakfast.
Max: Breakfast is good.
(scratching his ear) It’s as good as dinner. In fact, it’s sorta-kinda-exactly like
dinner. Only at the other end of the day.
Bubba: Use that brain often,
do you?
Max: Nope. I don’t wanna
wear it out. (checks out the window for a squirrel) So what are we gonna do?
About sleeping at night?
Bubba: Well, whenever I wake
up, I want to go outside, so you could stop waking me up by crawling under the
bed and digging.
Max: Nope. Can’t stop
that. There might be moles.
Bubba: Moles? In the carpet?
Max: You never know. Moles
are sneaky.
Bubba: All right, then you
could stop climbing over Dad and making him flop over and snore louder and wake
me up.
Max: Sounds like you don’t
want me to have any fun.
Bubba: Okay, then you could
get more exercise before we go to bed. Chase your squeaky football down the
stairs a hundred times.
Max: Booorrrrrinnnggg.
Bubba: Okay, then play that
game where you run at the sofa and I growl at you and you jump back and spin in
little circles.
Max: Also booorrrrinnnggg.
You never get off the sofa and take your turn.
Bubba: Why should I? I have
seniority.
Max: Seen Who Itty?
Bubba: I’m older than you
are and I’ve lived here longer.
Max: Maybe that’s why Mom
says you’re too set in your ways. She says there’s no good reason for you to
get her up for breakfast when you do.
Bubba: No good reason? It’s
5:30 when I get her up. That’s when breakfast is supposed to happen.
Max: Mom thinks 6:30 would
be better.
Bubba: 6:30? That’s
practically noon. (standing and stamping her front feet) I won’t do it. I won’t
even consider it. I’ll go on strike before I’ll give in to a ridiculous demand
like that.
Max: (running in circles)
Oh boy. If you’re going on strike, I’m going too. Okay? Okay? Okay? (stops and scratches
his chin) What’s on strike?
Bubba: It’s when we refuse
to do our jobs.
Max: We have jobs? Like
Dad used to have before he retired?
Bubba: Sort of, only
different. We take Mom and Dad on walks and clean up stuff they drop on the
floor and sit on their laps and let them pet us and do stupid tricks.
Max: Got it. No more
walks! No more eating off the floor. No more tricks! No more petting!
Bubba: (raising a paw) Lap
dogs of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains.
Max: Yeah. What you said.
(sits and cocks his head) Um, except we don’t have chains, we have those
plastic leashes. And, um, I’m kinda gonna miss the petting. (Looks out of the
window) And the walks. Let’s not go on strike.
Bubba: Okay, so much for my
Norma Rae impression. (curling up to go back to sleep) Don’t forget to wake me
up at midnight for a trip to the back yard. Tonight could be the night we see a
squirrel.
Max: (running for the
door) Squirrel!?! Where?
