I have a wonderful, wonderful dog. Mostly. She’s definitely a personality. Most of the time we get along great, but one of her less endearing traits is her punctuality. You see, during the week we go for our morning walk before I leave for work, which is really early in the morning. This means that on the weekend she expects us to keep this schedule. No matter what.
So, every Saturday and Sunday morning I’m woken at an ungodly hour by a whining, insistent, nuzzling nose. She does not care how late I was up the night before, nor how many alcoholic beverages were consumed, nor how hungover and exhausted I am. When it’s time to go, it’s time to go, and I’ve learned the hard way not to ignore my doggy alarm clock.
This morning, like clockwork, she had me up at the crack of dawn. I got up, red and bleary eyed, head pounding, and fumbled around to find clothes to throw on to take her out.
As she pulled me, stumbling, down the block I was puzzled at how many people were up and about. Who would voluntarily get up at that early hour? And more strange, they were all in nice clothing, which is very unusual for my neighborhood. Button down shirts, chaste dresses, nice shoes. Most of these people don’t even wear clothes that nice to work.
Then it dawned on me. There’s only one obvious reason to get up early on a Sunday morning and dress nice, they’re going to church.
I almost laughed out loud, not because of their dedication but because of the image I cut in comparison. Me, hungover, exhausted, in a black t-shirt with the sleeves off, tattooed, hairy, red eyed, unshaven, walking my scrappy little dog that looks like she’s been in one too many alley fights. She’s a great dog but she was a stray for many years and you can tell she had it rough before I adopted her.
I imagine that when I’m not looking parents are pointing me out to their children, that’s why they go to church, so they don’t end up like me.