The dog doesn’t leave my side. Well, that’s not entirely true—he’s afraid of the bathroom, and if I’m in my bedroom reading, he will sneak into Jeffrey’s bed and I’ll shortly hear his rumbly snore. There’s nothing like the snore of a 165 pound dog shaking the floor. Really. If I am in my bedroom doing yoga, he is insistent that he help. That’s another issue.

My office seems to be his favorite place to nap. He circles twice and then flops heavily on the floor, sighs deeply, and starts another nap. It’s a hard life. If I change chairs or move around, he faithfully gets up, circles the tiny room, and flops again at my feet.  I’m pretty sure he can’t tell time, but every afternoon, just before 3:00 he rouses himself, gives a big back-arching stretch accompanied by a wide yawn, and then heads to the office window behind my desk.

He stands still, ears cocked forward, eyes scanning the street below. It will be a good twenty minutes or more before Bean and Abby round the corner, but he stands at attention, never leaving the window.  I believe he hears them before he can see them—his vision is compromised—but I know he hears them when his tail begins to batter the back of my desk chair. He stands there, wagging with joy, listening with perked ears, until they round the corner and he finally sees them.

As soon as he sees them, he spins around and races out of my office and down the stairs, where he presses his nose against the glass in the front door, his whole body wagging with joy, while Bean fumbles with his key in the lock.

Every. Day.

He’s a more accurate timepiece that the old German cuckoo-clock I restored that hangs in the dining room. I never know what hour it’s going to chime, but the dog…the dog knows.