There it goes.. the scratch. Is it really morning already? I turn over and pray I’m still dreaming, but to no avail. I have one last glimmer of hope, but it’s fading. There it goes again. Another scratch. Ugh! I am reminded this is not a dream. But I cannot possibly be awake when I just fell asleep six hours ago? I refuse to acknowledge the new day.

What started as a scratch slowly transitions into a low growl. Darn... confirmation. Resilience. Stubbornness. Outright denial. I am certain it won’t stop at this point. His patience continues to amaze me, as he tries so hard to be gentle, polite and on some level respectful, yet he is relentless and demands that I get out of bed and begin “our” day. What is crazier is his innate ability to know exactly when the clock strikes 6:21 am every single morning. I am forced to respect this god-given talent, regardless of the weather, season or year. It’s simply amazing.

I plead with him to allow me more time to sleep, but he refuses... raising his voice ever so slightly, yet louder by the minute. He knows he has me. The more I beg him to be quiet, the more anxious he gets. “Shhh”! I demand, hoping he understands that I’m the boss. He thinks about it, but there is no stopping him. He challenges me and makes the conscious decision to growl a bit louder, recognizing he has a full-house to my ace-high straight, and he goes all-in. In another minute, there will be a bark that will certainly wake everyone up. That is his trump card. I whisper a white lie into his ear... “we’ll go to the park later?”, but that promise never suffices. He understands “park” but knows that I need to be out of bed for that to occur. I try every trick possible, including “go get your leash”, “wait downstairs”, and “go to your mother” – anything to allow me 10 more minutes of rest; but we are on “his” time now. I realize there is no turning back. I pet his head, grope his beard, even honk his nose with tenderness, hoping he’ll jump onto the bed and agree to fall back asleep next to me, but after many failed attempts I realize I’m toast. My day has begun, and I am now on the clock. He knows it, and I know it.

Like a ninja, I scramble through a nearly pitch-dark room, looking for the essentials... phone, robe, slippers. It is still dark outside, freezing cold, and my bedroom remains blacked out. My parents play like they are asleep, as does my sister, but we all know they are awake. I play along with their game... “it’s my dog”. Ownership over the morning walk was negotiated long ago when we picked up the dog, and while there is nothing in writing, it’s clearly my job. Cody waits for me by the staircase. A beautiful, wavy-haired, blonde Golden Doodle who came from 8 generations of perfectly genetically mixed Golden Doodles. As long as he is not guarding his biscuits, he can be quite charming. Cody’s only concern at this early hour is whether we are going around the block... which means he would meet me at the front door, or we are going to the park...which means I’ll be going through the kitchen to the garage and into the car. Stalking me from the top of the staircase, he watches my every move as I fumble to find what I need. Listening intently for the jingle of my keys, or the clank of his leash. I don’t think he cares either way, but he is awaiting each alternative. With my eyes mostly closed, I put on my green winter jacket, grab the first hat I can find in the foyer closet, a doggy bag, a leash, and make my last-minute meaningless decision where to walk.

Like the Amazing Kreskin, Cody somehow knows the plan already, and I find him waiting patiently in the foyer, burrowed firmly against the front door so there is no chance I could possibly make it outside without him. I click the leash onto his collar, open the door, and off we go. My goal is simple. Let my dog respect our half-mile walk around the block by marking his scent on virtually every flower, shrub and tree along the way. We are now on “his” time, so how dare I judge him, let alone question his unique ability to hold a gallon of liquid in his bladder and patiently distribute it during our walk. It is the same route every morning. Same direction. Same bushes. How he allocates the exact portion of urine is amazing, but somehow he always has a little extra saved in the tank for the last 100 feet.

By 7:00am, we saunter back through the front door and into the house. My mom, dad and sister all remain asleep, and I turn on the house. Lights on, heat on, maybe some coffee. My parents are downstairs and getting ready to take my to school. Cody meanders in the kitchen, watching my every move, careful not to miss my departure. He knows that at some point in the next few minutes, I will be opening the kitchen door that leads to the garage, and I’ll be leaving. When he senses that it’s go-time, he wedges himself firmly against the kitchen door that leads to the garage, waiting patiently. Eventually, my father announces that he is prepared to leave the house and drive me to school. The kitchen door opens, Cody hops down three steps and beelines straight to the car door, where he waits to be hoisted into the backseat to enjoy our ride to school.

During the ride, I casually chat with my father, mentioning the MTV Awards the night before or questioning why Cardi B didn’t win more Grammys. Cody, for his part, happily stares out the car window, tongue dragging to the side, and tracking every person, dog, bird, deer and tree he passes. After I am dropped off at school, my father heads back home. Once again, he enters from the garage into the kitchen, but this time Cody sprints to the stove, trying desperately to smell whether my mom has cooked anything interesting for breakfast. If so, he will find a space next to her and cozy up to his new best friend. If not, he will meander upstairs to my room, find a snug spot on his doggy bed, and wait patiently for me to return. So goes the life of a dog.