Forgive the cliché, but I am not a morning person. If it were up to me, no one would be expected to get out of bed before eight o'clock, and it would be completely acceptable to stay in your PJs sipping coffee and reading books until nine or ten.
“Cool, cool, but like, I can tell from resting my chin on your knee, you’re still in your pajamas as you write this, so are we going soon, or...?”
My dog, however, disagrees. The earlier we take him on his walk the better, as far as he’s concerned. Many, many times over the last two years I’ve told him straight to his whining snout how deeply I resented him for forcing me to don a jacket and shoes a good hour before I would even be seriously considering jeans myself.
Just as many times, though—well, okay, not every time, but most—I’ve ended up thanking him mid-walk for getting me outside. Mornings are lovely around here. And if it weren’t for him literally dragging me out the door I’d have missed many misty dawns, mourning dove calls, invigorating winds, and shafts of lemony sunlight cresting the mountains. I may have even missed all those blossoming trees over the last week.
So, thanks, buddy. Good boy.
“SWEET VICTORY, THE DAY IS MINE!”