I stand and stretch out my legs, enjoying the feel of my muscles reaching their limit. I’ve been laying here, on my bed for two hours, in and out of sleep. Mom’s going to the kitchen to start dinner and I follow her. You never know what might come flying off that cutting board, directly to me.

“Oh, Rhett, are you watching the Food Network?” She says as I sit down at the unspoken boundary line between the kitchen and the dining room. I don’t know what this Food Network is, but when Mom says it, it is usually connected with food, so now I’m getting excited.

If you haven’t guessed it by now, I’m a dog. A black Labrador Retriever, to be exact. At least that’s what they tell me. I don’t know the difference, nor do I much care.

By now you might be thinking “How does this dog have the vocabulary necessary for writing a story?”. Well, let me answer that for you before I move on in said story. They tell me that my sire was here from England on holiday when my mother got pregnant. I don’t know if that’s true or not, since I’ve heard the humans argue about it quite a bit, but I do know that apparently people from this place called England have very advanced vocabularies, so maybe it’s just in my blood. Another thing my vocabulary can probably be attributed to is the fact that, when my family leaves me at home for longer periods of time, specifically on Sundays, they play what they call sermons on the TV. As far as I can tell, it’s just some guy named Jon Courson - what sort of a name is that? Certainly not as refined as Rhett Butler - reading out of something called a Bible and explaining what he read.

It’s not the most interesting thing I’ve ever heard, but I enjoy it, and I’ve actually learned quite a bit from my hours alone with him.

He’s almost like a friend. I’d know his voice anywhere.

My family has also caught me reading a dictionary once. My secret’s been out ever since, but I’ve managed to hold to what I believe to be the fifth amendment.

Oh, hold on a minute, time to focus.

A piece of juicy, cooked-just-right moose meat sails through the air and lands right in my open, waiting mouth. It’s a bigger bite than I expected.

With the delectable morsel tucked safely between my jaws, I head over to my bowl - which will probably be filled with food soon too - and gingerly devour what I’ve been given, so as not lose any and let it roll out of sight. I’m an older dog now, and my sniffer isn’t as good as it once was, so it would be harder to find if it did.

The moment I’m finished, I go back to my post. I think I’m drooling now, I feel a weight tugging at the sides of lips, but I don’t really care. I just want another piece of meat.

Ashley comes down the hall, and sees me.

“Gross, Dog, you got to stop that. I swear, that drool’s at least seven inches long!” She goes to the table and gets a napkin, and I know what’s coming.

I look at her straight on until she gets to me, and right before the napkin touches me, I duck my head and turn so that the strand gets even longer, and ends up laying across Ashley’s arm.

She freaks. If I had human lips, I’d be grinning right now.

When you think about it, she should be happy. At least it’s no longer on me. That had been her goal, after all, hadn’t it?

She holds her arm over the sink and runs water down the length of it, complaining about how slimy my drool is. I decide to use the distraction and creep a little closer. Right as I get close enough that all Mom would have to do is reach down to give me something, I hear tires roll up the driveway.

Ashley hears it too.

“Daddy’s home!” She cries as we race to the door, each trying to beat the other, as is our daily custom.

The front door is open, so I push through storm door before Ashley does, and I run out onto the porch and to Dad’s jeep. As he makes it all the way into the driveway and parks, I follow the car, and am right there when he opens the door.

“Hi, the Bud, how you doing boy?” He greets as he reaches down to pet me. Oh, I can’t get enough of it. I know it makes little sense. I mean, why would anyone want to be pet? The entire concept is a bit odd, but for some strange reason, I love it!

After a few moments, he stops and turns to get his stuff out of the passenger seat.

He nudges me out of the way and exits the car to see Ashley waiting for him on the porch.

They greet each other, and once we’re all back in the house, my attention is fixed on dinner again. I’m pleased to find that Mom filled my bowl with food while I was out. I start eating immediately.

Once dad settles in and changes his clothes, the family sits down to dinner, and tells me to go lay on my bed. I don’t want to. They know that. But they insist.

Dejectedly, I walk toward my bed as slow as I can. Maybe they’ll take pity on me and call me back. But alas, they do not.

I lay down, as close to edge as possible, and stare at the three of them the whole meal through. Then Dad gets up for seconds. I take that as my cue.

I very slowly, very quietly, get back up and make my way over to his seat. Then I start getting given scraps as the table starts being cleared.

Dishes are washed and the family sits down. I lay on the couch with them for a while as they watch a movie. Then, eventually, I get uncomfortable and lay down on my own bed. Boy, I hate getting old.

My family hates it too. I can tell. When they see me moving more slowly, gritting my teeth through my arthritis, I can tell it hurts them as much as it hurts me. So I try not to show my pain. For their sake. I always do my best act like I’ve always acted.

Eventually, the movie is over, and Dad goes to bed. He always goes to sleep first. I’ve heard them say it’s because he has to get up really early. They say things like early and late all the time. Not sure what they mean by it, but I get the idea. I think.

I wait patiently at the foot of the bed, hoping to be invited up. Then as Ashley comes in to say goodnight to Dad, she sees me, and gets a sheet for me to lay on. I don’t think they like it much when I shed on everything.

She spreads it out on the top of the bed, and Dad pats the place next to him. That’s all the invitation I need. I hop up and we get comfortable. After Ashley leaves the room, leaving the door cracked for when I need to get up and go back to my own bed, I start to fall asleep. I feel safe in my master’s arms. I trust him. There is no place I’d rather be.

Amanda Rose, an Italian-Mexican-Irish mix, was born in Southern California, but from the age of six, she grew up in the wild beauty of Southwestern Alaska. She can often be found drinking insane amounts of coffee, and is always open to recommendations of new books, coffees or teas to try :)