Wake Up, Friend

At approximately 5:43 every morning, my two Australian shepherds become convinced the day simply cannot begin without me.

There is no evidence to support this conclusion. Nevertheless, Oz and Lolly will have reached unanimous agreement that sleeping beyond this hour represents an unforgivable waste of perfectly good daylight.

One of them will begin diplomatically by curling up hard against my back or in the crook of my legs with a loud, impatient sigh. If that fails to produce the desired response, the other escalates matters by more or less climbing on top of me. Moments later, as I grudgingly stir, comes the inevitable tail wagging and barrage of kisses to my face, delivered with the persistence of a debt collector who has finally tracked me down.

Sleep under these circumstances becomes largely theoretical. Hiding under the covers will not work.

By any objective measure, bedding down with two medium-sized dogs is a terrible idea. Somehow they manage to occupy roughly ninety percent of a king-sized mattress, pushing my wife and me off to the edges. Each time they shift in the night from their sides to their backs to their tummies and back again, dreaming their animated doggy dreams or woofing in alarm at sounds, real or imagined, of animals outside, I lose sleep.

And yet, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I’ve reached an age where I realize that many things in life come inextricably bound both by annoyance and joy.

Young grandchildren have little regard for privacy or breakable objects in Nana and Poppy’s house, yet you relish every moment spent with them.

Marriage demands willingness to tolerate your partner’s shortcomings, but you count your lucky stars for their willingness to put up with yours.

Writing novels requires spending countless lonely hours alone with imaginary people while real life unfolds outside your office window, but you know that if you persist, one day you will realize the satisfaction of holding that finished book in your hand.

Flying airplanes often means not flying airplanes when the weather gods refuse to cooperate, which makes you appreciate all the more those days when they do.

And dogs, wonderful creatures that they are, insist on reminding you every morning whether you’re in the mood or not that another day has arrived and they’d very much like you to experience it right now, together.

Dogs possess qualities we human beings often spend our lives chasing. They don’t calculate relationships. They don’t keep score. They don’t care whether you’ve had a successful day or an embarrassing one. They have absolutely no interest in your résumé. Never once have my dogs asked me how my latest novel is selling. To them, I’m simply the guy who lets them outside to go potty in the morning, feeds them breakfast, rubs their ears and bellies, takes them on walks, teaches them tricks, brushes them, plays catch with them and tug-of-war and chase me, and provides endless treats.

Every evening, without fail, they follow us upstairs to bed. They know exactly where they’re supposed to sleep, though “supposed” is an elastic concept. Oz usually settles himself against my feet, positioned toward the door, protecting us. Lolly often begins face-to-face, several inches from my pillow, before eventually joining Oz.

Sometime in the middle of the night I’ll stir just enough to notice one or both of them pressed against me. Not because they’re cold. Because we’re a pack.

There’s something profoundly moving about being loved with so little complication.

Human relationships are wonderfully rich, but they’re also maddeningly complex. We misunderstand each other. We carry grudges. We say things we wish we hadn’t. We spend entirely too much time worrying about things out of our control.

Dogs eliminate all of that.

You are either their person or you aren’t. And if you are, they’ve already decided you’re enough. That’s an extraordinary gift.

Of course, there are mornings when I briefly question the arrangement.

Usually around 5:43.

As Lolly enthusiastically washes my face and Oz stands on my chest with the urgency of a paramedic about to perform CPR, I occasionally wonder what uninterrupted sleep must have been like.

Then I remember.

There will come a day when this ritual ends.

I don’t know when. None of us ever does. But anyone who has loved a dog long enough eventually learns the same heartbreaking lesson: we almost always outlive them.

Someday these two joyful little alarm clocks will no longer race upstairs at bedtime. The house will become quieter. The bed will become roomier. I’ll sleep later than I do now.

And I suspect I’d give just about anything to wake up one more time with an overabundance of kisses arriving twenty minutes before the sun. That realization has a way of putting things into perspective. Indeed, all of us are given only so many mornings.

Mine happen to begin with two sweet Aussies who greet every sunrise as though it’s the greatest event in history. They don’t ruminate about yesterday. They don’t fret over tomorrow. They don’t wonder whether the day ahead will be productive. They’re simply thrilled that another day has arrived.

Tomorrow morning, before the sun has crested the Santa Ynez Mountains, Oz and Lolly will once again decide I’ve slept long enough. There will be kisses, and much wagging of tails.

I’ll grumble.

I’ll pretend to be annoyed.

But the truth is, I know exactly how fortunate I am to live with two gentle, funny, affectionate beings whose favorite place to be is beside me, and whose first thought every morning is simply, Wake up, friend. We’ve got another day together.

A little lost sleep seems a remarkably small price to pay for such a gift.