It’s 6:03 in the morning. Not 6:00. Not 6:05. Six. Oh. Three. This is not a time any sane human should be alive, let alone functioning. And yet, like clockwork, a small, fuzzy assassin—codename: Georgie—initiates his first strike. A gentle tap on the arm. Soft. Innocent. Like a well-mannered English butler waking you with a tray of tea.
But don’t be fooled. This is merely phase one of his campaign.
If the first tap doesn’t rouse me—and let’s be honest, it usually doesn’t because I am not a morning person—he proceeds to phase two: whining. Not a dramatic howl. No, no. It’s subtle. Manipulative. Like the sound a Mustang GT makes on first gear—full of restrained power and condescension.
Still in bed? Right. That’s when he launches phase three: burrowing his head under my arm like a badger with a vendetta, pretending to dig his way to Australia through my arm. And just when I think he’s done, he throws his entire body across me like a dying Shakespearean actor. This is no longer a request. This is a full-scale invasion.
Eventually, I give in. Because of course I do. He’s small, fluffy, determined—and, unlike most creatures that weigh 20 pounds, he can command my entire schedule.
So out we go.
Now, the first walk of the day is not so much a stroll as it is a ceremonial march. Georgie leads with the purposeful swagger of a general inspecting his troops. He sticks to the sidewalk like it’s holy ground, occasionally glancing back to scold me: “Dad, you’re slow. You’re embarrassing both of us.”
Then begins the olfactory ballet. Trees. Bushes. Fire hydrants. Garden gnomes. Parked bicycles. Nothing is off limits. If it stands still long enough, it’s getting sniffed and probably peed on. I don’t question it anymore. This is how kings mark kingdoms, and Georgie fancies himself the Lord Protector of Pemberton Oaks.
And then there are the dogs.
Some, he loves. Tail wagging, bum wiggling, like he’s at a highschool reunion with his buddies. Others? Completely ignored. As if they’re beneath him. The criteria for this is entirely unknowable. Scientists have theories. None hold up.
There are also the enemies: a Bernese Mountain Dog the size of a pony and a Labrador with the personality of a tax auditor. Georgie sees them, and suddenly, he becomes possessed by the spirit of an ancient wolf warlord. He lunges. He barks. He pulls with all the fury of a creature who has no idea he weighs less than a Thanksgiving turkey.
We return home victorious, or at least intact. Georgie watches me make my coffee—hovering like a manager who doesn’t trust the intern to do the job properly. Then we share breakfast. He eats his. I eat mine. He watches both, just in case I forget who really runs the household.
And so, the workday begins.
I tap away on keyboards. He curls up nearby, one eye open like a bodyguard in a spy film. Waiting. Patient. Dreaming, perhaps, of the afternoon patrol. Or another fight with the Labrador.
And when the sun starts to tilt, when the light turns golden and the air smells like second chances and dog biscuits… he rises.
Because the day’s not over.
Not until Georgie says so.
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