I stare up at him from my vantage point on the hard wood floor. He edges around me from time to time muttering “Barkley, just move.” I don’t want to move. I am comfortable. The floor is nice and cool on my belly and the rhythmic hum of the box fan is mesmerizing, hypnotizing. I feel like falling asleep much more than I feel like moving. My eyes grow heavy. And then I am hit by something. Suddenly. My eyes snap open and I violently shake my head to rid myself of the offending article. A shirt.

“Fuck,” he curses as he now runs over to the sink. The water runs. I wonder if he will share some of the water with me. So I don’t have to walk out to my bowl. But he doesn’t seem to be filling anything up with it. Such a waste. Instead he covers a small stick, which he never wants to play fetch with, with something that looks sticky and smells a little too sweet for my liking and shoves it in his mouth. Usually when he’s not frantically jumping around he says something about being minty fresh to me. But not today.

Today when he is done, he just starts spinning in circles, chanting the word “Shoes…shoes…shoes….” I’m not quite sure what he is aiming to gain from this. If he believes himself to suddenly be magic. Or if he’s just looking for a nice place for a lie down, as one of his hands begins moving clothes around on the floor. Continuing to mutter to himself about shoes.

Finally he seems satisfied as he stops talking to himself and sits on the edge of the bed, still for the first time all morning. And he puts something on his feet. I slowly rise and walk over to him, butting his hand with my head. And he gives me a smile that does not seem quite real as he pets me. The pets are quick and short, like his attitude all morning. And then he speaks. “We’ll play later,” he promises, his eyes appearing apologetic. “But right now, I have to go. I’m going to be late for work.”