By someone who absolutely did not volunteer for the dawn shift

There’s a moment — a cruel, unholy moment — when you realize that if you don’t take the dog out now, there will be consequences. Not gentle “oh well” consequences. No, I mean war-crime level consequences. So there you are, half-dressed, caffeine nowhere near the bloodstream, clutching a leash like it’s the last shred of your dignity.

And at your feet stands the beast — a tiny dog, roughly the size of a decorative cushion but with the self-importance of an apex predator. He struts out the door, chest puffed, as if he personally commanded the D-Day landings. He weighs twenty pounds but walks like a storm warning, barking at the wind like it just insulted his mother.

The air is crisp. The birds are chirping. The world feels vaguely judgmental. And then — the parade begins.

Morning walkers are a rare breed. The cast of characters you meet before 7 a.m. could populate a David Attenborough documentary narrated over the sound of clinking coffee mugs.

First, there’s The Avoider. This is the person who spots you from approximately 50 yards away, makes fleeting eye contact — and then immediately looks down, clutching their mug like a talisman against interaction. You can practically hear their internal screaming: “Please don’t talk to me, I haven’t put my face on yet!” They’re not unkind. Just cosmetically endangered.

Then, The Porch Philosopher. Mug of coffee. Robe of ambiguity. Hair that’s either a style choice or a hostage situation. They greet you with that slow, knowing nod, like they’ve personally witnessed the collapse of empires. You can tell they’ve been out there since last Tuesday, debating life, taxes, and whether the robe’s belt qualifies as a silent cry for help.

Of course, The Watchers are a separate category entirely. They peer from windows, half hidden by curtains, eyes narrowed like falcons assessing prey. They’re not angry. They’re studying you. Possibly judging your choice of footwear. Possibly wondering why your dog is vibrating at the speed of light while sniffing the same blade of grass for five solid minutes.

And somewhere, always, there’s The Lawn Protector. You can’t see them, but you feel them. A presence. A disturbance in the force. Their soul emits a low-frequency hum of territorial outrage. Your mere proximity sends waves of existential fear: “That sidewalk… that step… that pebble… all trespassing.” Until, inevitably, you hear it: the thunderclap of suburban fury, the ancient battle cry that has echoed through lawns for generations… “GET OFF MY LAWN!”

Then there’s a special breed altogether — The Responsible Owners. These are people who diligently pick up after their dogs, wielding little plastic bags like sacred relics. They are the unsung heroes of suburban hygiene. The Champions. The Legends. And then there are the anarchists who don’t. They leave their canine time capsules with the smug confidence of someone who just discovered fire, daring the next walker to navigate it. Your dog looks scandalized, the raccoon looks impressed, and you consider going home, muttering about evolution.

Somewhere up a tree a squirrel eyes your dog like it’s a contestant on a survival reality show. A badger waddles by nonchalantly plotting vengeance for some historic slight involving garden gnomes. Your dog tenses. You tense. The universe waits for the first sneeze to spark Armageddon.

But here’s the thing — by the time the sun drags itself properly above the horizon, everyone softens. The faces, the postures, the unbrushed hair. The world goes from grumpy and defensive to gently awake. Coffee steams. Birds gossip. Small dogs pretend to be wolves.

And in that magical, fleeting moment — when the sky blushes pink and the day hasn’t yet gone completely mad — you realize something profound:

We’re all just slightly disheveled animals trying to do our business before breakfast. Some pick up after their dogs. Some don’t. But mostly… we’re all just trying to survive the dawn, one leash, one coffee, and one suspiciously territorial lawn at a time.

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And now, a small but rather triumphant announcement.

Hidden Alignment—yes, that one, the one I’ve been banging on about—is officially loose on the world. Live on Amazon. Not lurking. Not “coming soon.” No, it’s there, strutting about in both eBook (available for pre-order, like a civilized guest) and paperback (already at your door, muddy boots and all).

So, if you do get your hands on it—and I sincerely hope you do—do me a favor. Please leave me a review on Amazon. Preferably a good one… but of course, that is entirely up to you. Two fingers crossed.

A few words, a sentence, a dramatic proclamation… anything short of interpretive dance will do nicely. It helps more than you’d think.

In fact, I’d appreciate it so much I’d likely become the happiest man in the whole of Virginia. Possibly spilling into neighboring states. Definitely New York. They’ll feel it.

There’s a QR code below—point your camera at it, and off you go, like magic but without the suspicious robes. Or, if you’re feeling traditional, there’s a link just beneath it. Click it. Same result, fewer theatrics.

Thank you, dear reader. Truly.

God bless you.

https://a.co/d/0dXopWw4