Every morning, typically at the crack of dawn, I hear that high-pitched squeaky yawn only dogs seem to be able to do, emit from Pip. She is over yonder on the chair that she has claimed for her dog bed. I pat the bed and she stretches before slowly ambling over here. Never touching the floor, she carefully bridges the gap from the chair foot rest to the bed. I must scoot over to allow her entry or she’ll stare at me until I do. She then waits for me to settle back on to my stomach and she nestles in between my legs where we both return to Dreamland for just a bit longer. I can’t remember how I used to survive starting my days before her.