Sound and furry

The house is too quiet. 

Morning came and went, and the boy didn't wake. 

The dog stretched out in front of his closed bedroom door, waiting for the day of dropped foodstuffs to begin.

Waiting on the boy has become a kind of part-time job to supplement her meals.

Cheerios for breakfast. Sandwiches for lunch. An untold number of crumbly snacks, some of them just before dinner.

She sees him and her pavlovian response is to lick her lips.

Not that she doesn't love him with all the tail-wagging love dogs have for their boys, it's just that her loyalties are multiplied by four and divided by an infinite number of snack breaks during any given moment of the day. 

She can always rely on him.

After all, he's the last person in the family who isn't really leaving the house. He's barely leaving his bedroom unless it's to poke his head into the kitchen to rummage through the refrigerator and cabinets.

She approves of his new appetite. She does not approve of his sleep pattern.

She can't seem to settle at night until the technical screens that illuminate his room go dark. 

All morning I've been rummaging around. Banging pots and pans as I shift them from the dishwasher to the cabinets. I am dragging laundry baskets up and down the stairs, letting the phone ring a little longer than is innately comfortable. 

Nothing.

It's noontime, and the room is still silent. I open the door and creep in. The dog paces along behind me. 

The floorboards creak, but he doesn't stir. He is wrapped like a caterpillar in a cocoon of blankets. The room is icy from the air conditioner in his window churning full force.

I touch his forehead, holding my breath. He is warm. But not too warm. I relax a little.

Don't worry, mom …. is forever a contradiction in terms.

It's summer. Let him sleep, I tell myself as I back out of the room, taking the dog with me by her collar. She wants to stay. I should let her. If only she could tell me how long he'd stayed up last night. I know he won't.

When he finally makes an appearance, still sleepy-eyed and slow-moving an hour or so later, he looks taller to me. Even apart from the shaggy hair that points every which way as if it woke up on fire.

He doesn't speak for a while.

There are no "Good mornings," just the sounds of cereal pellets falling into a bowl and a spoon being plucked from the drawer.

I continue to put away dishes as he fills his mouth with sweetened and fortified colorful cardboard. Some of it sloshes out as he drags the spoon across the bottom. The dog is waiting to clean up after him.

I wonder about his mood. His initial quietness isn't as good an indicator as to the angle of his eyebrows. But if it lasts much longer than a second breakfast, we could be in for a very long day.

There is nothing worse than the silent treatment on a hot summer day.

"Did you know that wombats have cube-shaped poop?" 

That's the noise for which I'd been waiting.