Remus

The top of my dog's head, his keppie, has a soft patch of fur between his two floppy velvet ears.

When he was an adopted dachshund puppy, he would curl his coffee bean body up in my crisscrossed legs for warmth. I would slowly pet the soft spot on his head, work my finger over the bridge of his nose and back again.

He would fall asleep, dream, and frolic, kicking his tiny legs and giving me kisses.

His terrier snaggletooth grew in first, and the rest of his underbite came after. It's my mother's favorite feature.

He still falls asleep in my crisscrossed legs, but he prefers his self-warming dog bed. He still dreams, but this time it's chasing the mailman who comes to the door every day with a smile.

He still gives kisses, but only when you are on his level and on his terms.

My little man isn't so little anymore. He's a ferocious guard dog, keeper of order in our small townhouse. He rises early at 7 am and slither-stretches on his belly from the bed down his doggy ramp towards the kitchen, where coffee is brewed and fresh water is waiting. By 8 am, the two of us are fed and walked, ready to start the workday. He alerts the focused writer about the comings and goings of birds and squirrels, dogs and stray cats, the neighbors, and strangers alike. He's got a job to do, and he does it the best, stationed at the window for hours on end, ensuring we are safe from those pesky delivery drivers. When his friends pass by, he always wants to go out and join them, but he knows I work. So he whines and begs, and when they finally pass, he resumes his station, waiting for his leave to go out and smell the news.

On our scheduled breaks, we play with his favorite toy and go outside. If I don't stop on time, he whines, reminding me that he needs self-care too. It's stressful protecting the house all day. His outside time is his time to smell, roll, explore our surroundings, and consider all the different threats and opportunities to our homestead. The corner garbage can is a hotbed of news, and we stop there every day to get the word on the street.

He hates it when I pull him away from something delicious smelling, but he also knows that the next fine-smelling thing could be right around the corner, so why worry about that one?

FOMO does not exist in his mind. But as I type this, he's staring at me and whining,

"It's bedtime; why are you still in your chair? It is dark outside—time to rest and dream. Tomorrow will have more coffee and screens, runs, and snacks. But now, it's sleep time."

There is no way he could understand that I can't go to bed now. That the deadline is almost up, and that this story is too important.

At night we cuddle in a blanket, his back against my belly or curled up in my arm. I pet the soft spot between his ears and wonder if he misses being a puppy, back when everything was so new and so big. When everyone was a friend, and he'd never known fear. Or, is he happier with this routine life we have carved for ourselves, with the responsibility of his role in our little pack and the same food every day?

In answer, he'll turn his head, give me a kiss, and go back to sleep, satisfied with his job well done.