The morning begins with numbers, 6:18 to be exact. No minute creeps by here, not on Zack's watch. He is the keeper of the clocks, the calendars, the numbers.
(I should keep a box of toothpicks handy, to entertain guests.)
When he's not talking digits, he's working on other promising skills, like tuning me out.
(Some might suggest this is his path to husbandry.)
I just can't help but wonder: If you need an itinerary, if you need order, why not listen the first time? But he'd rather take the hard way out, the road that leads straight to that grumpy ol' troll (the one that lives under the bridge).
So around we go: he needles me for answers to questions I used too many words covering just minutes before.
You're jealous, no?