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  • Jenna Beall

Mornings with Dewey

There she goes…

There she goes again…

Racing through my brain…


I silenced my alarm, always Sixpence None the Richer’s “There She Goes.”


I first heard the song in a birth control commercial sometime in the early 2000s. You know the type: pretty, vibrant ladies doing stuff like painting, twirling through a ballet class, holding a beach towel in the wind while laughing...those sorts of things. As a young girl, I thought, “That must be what womanhood is like.”


Anyways.


I took my morning medicine and gathered Dewey in my arms.


“You’re so soft,” I told him, just like I do every morning because he is indeed the softest, cuddliest little guy imaginable.


This is my most favorite recent picture of Dewey. He has the BEST personality.

I carried our little dachshund/pug concoction downstairs and outside (Gus prefers to sleep in like his Dad). He immediately pooped before trying to run back inside the house, eager to receive his treat and eat breakfast.


“Nice try,” I said. “You didn’t pee.”


Why this isn’t instinctual for Dewey, I will never know. Isn’t that what everyone wants to do first thing in the morning?


Resigned, he returned to the yard and finished his business. We sat outside for a few minutes, hoping for a visit from our favorite song bird or even a cardinal, but no patrons were visiting the bird bath.


I left Dewey downstairs with his bowl of kibble and went to shower and get ready for the day. I was sharpening my eye liner when I heard a whine from downstairs.


Something’s not right, I thought, à la Miss Clavel.


I hustled down the steps to retrieve a pathetic Dewey, who was sitting on the landing and begging to return upstairs. The poor guy still hasn’t mastered steps (he has such tiny legs!), so he’s really at our mercy when it comes to visits between floors.


This was strange behavior for Dew. He usually devoured his breakfast and went straight back to bed on the couch. Or, on more rambunctious mornings, he liked to destroy The New York Times, the current issue of Real Simple, or an innocent book sitting on a low shelf.


“You can go back to bed with your Dad,” I said, placing him in the dark bedroom and gently closing the door behind me.


I was just putting my earrings in when the bedroom door opened once more.


“What’s up with Dewey?” A bleary-eyed Adam asked, holding our rambunctious puppy in his arms. “He’s running around the bed like a mad man. He just wants to play.”


Once more, I took Dewey back downstairs.


“This is very unlike you, Dewey,” I said, as I gathered a bottle of ginger-lemonade kombucha and a flax seed bar for breakfast. “What gives?”


But when I turned around to give our youngest dog an imploring stare, he was mid-squat.


“No, no, no! Wait just ONE SECOND!” I swooped him up and ran Dewey outside as fast as I could, where he pooped for a second time in forty-five minutes.


I mean, HOW???


Talk about an efficient digestive system!


When I left the house, Dewey was back in his usual position: cozied up in his red flannel bed, looking like a docile lamb.


Running late now, I practically sprinted for my car, because God forbid I miss the jazzy new opening song for NPR’s Morning Edition.


Interestingly enough, I ended up driving to work behind two cars with these respective license plates:


THANX GOD


BE HAPPEE


Roger that, I thought, stilling humming along to the Morning Edition tune.

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