A Dog owners’ lost control 

I used to think I owned a home. Then I got a dog.

Sharing wasn’t discussed, it was going to be obvious.

And quickly what I learned to enjoy – that lack of control of my mornings. At precisely 6:03 a.m., a damp nose would inform me that sleep was optional but walking was not. Rain, frost, existential despair- irrelevant. Apparently “weather” is just a rumour spread by the weak. 

Then there’s the enthusiasm. I could leave the house for 20 seconds to take the bins out and return to a welcome usually reserved for wounded conquering heroes. No human has ever been that pleased to see me. Certainly not without wanting something.

But then, at the grand old age of sixteen, my friend decided,  quite calmly,  that it was time to go. Sixteen years of early mornings, muddy paws, unapologetic shedding, and the unwavering assumption that I was the most important creature alive.

That same night with an empty heart, I went to bed thinking… Well, at least I can sleep in tomorrow.

I woke up at 6:03 anyway.

There was no nose. No urgent stare. No ball placed beside the bed with a formal summons. Just silence, efficient, obedient, and wrong.

It turns out I hadn’t been woken by a dog all those years. I’d been woken by being needed.

The house became tidier. Quieter. Entirely manageable…

Which, as it happens, is not the same thing as alive.

And now, four years later, I find myself looking at puppies.

Thinking about another best friend.

What, exactly, am I doing?

Inviting chaos back in.

Volunteering for 6:03 a.m.

Signing up, once again, to be out-ranked in my own home, ( strewth, that’s always been the case. Like believing I set the rules in a house where I’m the one who fetches.)

And apparently, I’ve learned that I prefer a life that refuses to let me sleep in.

I remember a friend told me a time ago: sleep, it’s a waste of a good day.