Ritual

The old dog is asleep, noisily asleep, twitching in a dream, breathing too heavily, audibly recording her dream so that when she wakes up, smells my coffee brewing, stretches, asks in that polite way she has--not looking at me, not directly, warm snout on my leg, waiting with uncommon patience for me to realize she is there, waiting for me to open the box of milk bones, the only doggy treat she deigns to eat, take out two, put one in her open mouth, put the other on the floor next to her water, not in her dish, open the back door to let her out to make water (as I say so as not to embarrass her), but stay by the door so she can quickly come back in for the second treat which she will wolf down (in a nod to her lineage), have another lap of water before going to her place by my chair where she expects me to be as soon as the coffee is perked, one spoon of sugar, a scant spoon, and a drop of skim milk stirred in, and both of us sitting near the window, up, awake, happy, even content, ready to begin a new day together which is as it should be and, actually, is how it is.