My eyes pop open and I know it’s 5:00 a.m. Without even looking at the clock I know. Because it’s always 5:00 a.m. when Joji sleeps over. The awakening starts with the ritual shaking. The flapping of ears and jowls accompanied by the tinkling of collar tags. Then the huffing and sneezing begins. And the pacing back and forth across the bed. It’s all performative art of course. Joji doesn’t need to clear the stardust from his system. He just wants me to get up. I hold the line, hoping that he’ll go back to sleep if I just ignore his antics long enough. But Joji knows it’s a ruse because he’s seen it before. He also understands that my resistance is no match for his German will and terrier-like determination. So he starts in on the vocalizations. At first, it’s not much more than a series of muffled snorts. As he becomes more insistent, the snorts morph into soft, guttural growls which themselves ultimately evolve into outright barking. The whole thing would be hilarious and endearing if it wasn’t so damn exasperating. I begrudgingly lift my head. Joji’s bright eyes and bearded face are staring down at me with excited anticipation. The clock reads 5:03 a.m. The sleeping is done.
Out of bed, we crest the top of the staircase in the dark and start to descend together. I grab the banister to guide me as Joji hovers right at my feet. If he gets one step ahead of me, he stops mid-stair, face down and rump up, to make certain that I don’t renege and head back to the bedroom. I have to side-step him to avoid tripping and then tumbling down the stairs in tragic, slapstick fashion.
In the kitchen, I start coffee while Joji waits impatiently by the sliding glass door. He doesn’t need artificial stimulants to start the day. As the coffee percolates, I pull on my down vest and get out the leash and harness. Joji lives for these moments but he loathes the harness so he moves away from me when I approach to slip it over his head. I give him the look. Wear the contraption or we stay in. After mulling over those mutually unappealing options, he sheepishly comes forward with head lowered and ears down as if walking the platform to the guillotine. I slip the harness over his head, secure it around his lithe little body, and he bounds toward the door pulling me behind him.
Outside it’s dark and cool. The dew on the grass glitters under the street lamps like diamonds scattered on the ground. Joji immediately tows me to the electrical box at the end of the driveway to relieve himself. For some odd reason that only he understands, this is THE place to pee, the most desirable post in the neighborhood. Joji then proceeds to relieve himself again and again on every bush, twig, flower, tree, rock, water pipe, sprinkler box, mail box, and street sign we pass on our walk through the silent streets. After a while, he lifts his leg to leave his mark but nothing happens. He’s out of juice.
That’s when the pooing starts. Joji sniffs around until he finds the appropriate place, squats on his haunches, and let’s one loose. Scientists have found that dogs prefer to align their bowel movements along a north-south axis, but Joji doesn’t really care about science. He moves his bowels along whatever axis he feels like. I pick up the steaming pile with my specially-designed, green plastic baggy and we move on. Then Joji squats again. This time I’m not as well prepared. I don’t have another baggy so I fumble around in the darkness until I find a stick that I can use to shovel the second installment into the bag to join the first. Confident that Joji is finally finished with his business, I tie the baggy tightly up and we start moving again. But I’ve underestimated Joji’s ability fill plastic bags. For a third time in less than ten minutes, Joji assumes the poop posture and soils the soil.
Now I’m in a quandary. I know I should pick up after my pet, but I’m not sufficiently provisioned the deal with the torrent of poo coming from this small, loveable creature. I surreptitiously glance around. The coast is clear. So I casually slink away from the scene of the crime and leave Joji’s third movement on the ground where it rests. As we start back for the house, a cock crows somewhere off in the distance and I have to chuckle about the lateness of this particular rooster’s cock-a-doodle-doo. He’s obviously not on Joji time.
Back inside I sit on the couch with a piping hot cup of caffeine in front of me. There’s zero chance that I can climb back into bed and regain sleep. My mind and body are already wide awake. Joji doesn’t concern himself with such trifles. He lies peacefully by my side, curled into a tight, hairy orb, dreaming of tennis balls, rawhide bones, and waking me up at 5:00 a.m. the following morning to do it all over again.
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