My first duty in the morning, duty with a "t", is to feed the dogs their breakfast. The responsibility part of this task is often highlighted by 50 pounds of pit bull head being laid gently down atop mine.  Hard to ignore a fuzzy beanbag yawning above you.  Especially when it's licking you. 

In order to effectively feed the dogs, my first activity is to head to the bathroom to wash the sleep out of my eyes and prevent missing a stair on my way down to the kitchen.  With the frigidity of the current winter, this step also involves wrapping myself in my large fluffy bathrobe and slipping on my sensible around-the-house slippers. 

Down the stairs I go, two high-stepping puppies at my heels, picking up the various dog toys and food ingredients used as part of the morning feeding routine.  Once their meal is served, I get a brief 30 minutes to myself.  I sidestep to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee.  Coffee is lifeblood.  Coffee is the mother, the father, the innkeeper, and the holy ghost.  I like coffee even more than I like turtles. 

I take my first sip immediately, before relocating to the reclining chair to read the internet news.  That moment when I take my second sip of joe while reading the events of the day, that is the moment I picture when I'm motivating myself out of bed.  That moment is my morning bliss.  

Today, just as I began to see flashes of the non-fatal Harrison Ford plane crash on my computer screen, I looked down to glimpse a black spider, quarter-sized, crawling its way out from the fold of my robe.  It walked with purpose, bee-lining it, spider-lining it, toward my upper chest and lower neck area.

"Oh hell's no!," I said out loud as my only recourse against the injustice which was this insect's invasion of both my personal space and time.  I grabbed the closest piece of scrap paper available, which happened to be a tissue, and I ended that arachnid's eight-legged life.  In my mind, the spider shot first.  It brought the fight to me. If a man can't defend his own bathrobe, what can he defend! I was being a patriot, god damn it. 

I am not anti spider.  Hell, my wife and I have even taken to fostering one bug-eating helper by our sliding door.  That web looks like a scale model of the set of Tron.  That spider is living the good life.  It's like an organic farm-raised spider.  Allowed to live out its days roaming the corner of our great room with impunity. 

Unless that spider gets wanderlust and ventures forth into my bathrobe, or the shower for that matter. Then, well, it's a matter of self defense.  

Dude, you got something in your teeth.

p.s. Does this mean there is definitely an egg sack somewhere in my robe? Do I wash it, dry-clean it, or just throw it away to avoid any flashbacks.  There's definitely an egg-sack in it though, right?  I think so too.