The dog at 311 knows the schedule better than I do

I passed by the old red house on Elm this morning, and the terrier—always named something like 'Marmalade' or 'Biscuit' by the neighbours—was sitting right under the porch light, tail thumping once for every minute past 7:05. I’ve been retired three years, but he still checks me like I’m delivering something important. The way he looks up, just long enough to say, 'You’re late,' before settling back in. December mornings are like that now—quiet, full of small betrayals of routine. I don’t know if he remembers me, but I remember him. That’s enough.