I decided to go back to bed and begin again, in the hope it would reset my day. All that did was attract attention.
I could hear the fumbling paws of the new puppy come thundering down the passage towards the bedroom. It had realised I was awake and it was in "good morning" mode.
A whippet puppy in good morning mode is all legs and teeth with an exceptionally wet and pointy snout at the front.
I buried my head under the duvet and bellowed for hubby to come and remove his animal, so I could at least reset my day in a civilised manner.
He arrived with an explanation that he'd been cleaning up a puppy-related puddle. "Pets are why we can't have nice things," I wailed. "Like carpet, and sleep-ins."
Not that I'm a great fan of carpet anyway, when floorboards are so much easier to clean. But after having four noisy grandchildren who like to run in the house and play with toy cars and trucks, the noise-cancelling aspect of carpet has begun to appeal.
But sleep-ins ... those appeal a lot.
Whippet puppies don't do sleep-ins. They wake up about 6am, running. Running after the cat, running with a sneaker, running after a toy, running with a sock, running to leap on the bed and prod your face with a cold and pointy wet snout, before trying to drink your cup of tea, then falling off the bed by accident and running off again.
So far the only thing the puppy hasn't run after is the chook that keeps getting into my garden.
Chooks don't do sleep-ins either.
My garden invader kicks into action around dawn I think, because no matter when I surface, she's there.
"I saw you outside in your dressing gown as I drove past this morning," someone kindly pointed out on Tuesday.
"You were waving a yellow plastic leaf rake. You seemed annoyed."
I was. I had spent time and several dollars in the weekend putting an extension on the garden fence to keep the chooks out, and it only worked on the ones that didn't come in anyway.
Everson the rooster doesn't seem to do sleep, let alone sleeping in. "Your rooster was crowing at 3am," my daughter told me after staying the night with us.
I told her as long as he wasn't crowing from the centre of my lettuce seedlings he could crow whenever he darned well liked.
Rachel Wise.
Horses don't do sleeping in either. Mine stand and peer at the kitchen window until some unfortunate soul succumbs to the urge to make a cup of tea.
They watch the tea-maker's every move, making little snorting noises, just small polite reminders that, you know, breakfast would be nice.
If the tea-maker tries to sneak off to bed with their steaming brew, they make bigger angry snorting noises, followed by some more shrill, whinnying sounds and they start to paw at the ground, and the gate.
The sound of expensive horseshoes about to be hooked in the gate and levered off gets me out of bed every time. And once the horses are fed and chickens chased and eggs collected and whippets disentangled from your pyjama legs, there's no point trying to resume that sleep-in.
There will be hay down your front and oats in your socks and the chihuahuas will have spread out and taken your warm spot in the bed anyway.
Now there's something that knows the value of a good sleep-in. Chihuahuas. You don't find Bunnie, Mungo and Hugo leaping from a perfectly warm bed to run about in the cold playing games and trashing vege gardens.
No, you don't find them at all unless you look under the duvet. And if you do they will look very affronted because you're letting the cold air in.
So unless you want to confront a trio of affronted chihuahuas, there's no chance of resuming an abandoned sleep-in in our house.
Maybe I should give up on sleep and try for carpet instead.
