I try to let sleeping dogs lie but Zeppelin will have none of it. He seemed deep in his dreams at the foot of the bed when I slipped down the dark hallway to the kitchen, but, as I stand at the counter eating a hasty bowl of cereal, I hear the whisper of pads on hardwood, a breathy harrumph, and the soft thump of old bones settling to the floor beside me. I reach down and scratch his head.

I step over the dog and rinse my bowl in the sink, hoping to be more successful at not waking my wife than I had the dog. It’s early. We’re hoping for a morning top-water bite, so we’ve agreed to be at the launch by sunrise. It’s a two-hour drive.

I leave the bowl in the sink and tip-toe back down the hall to the office to check my email for any last-minute emergence of better judgment, but we’re still on. I’m in the chair just long enough for the laptop to boot before there’s a brush of fur against my bare leg and that familiar breathy sigh from under the desk. In the quiet room it’s a statement. What the hell, Dad? Let’s go back to bed. He settles at my feet.

I get up and move from place to place, packing the final items into the boat bag, washing the cobwebs out of my eyes and brushing my teeth. The shepherd follows with a hangdog expression and a loose-jointed carriage, trailing wisps of undercoat that will coalesce into tumbleweeds later in the day. 

His demeanor perks up as I carry the gear to the truck. He joins me in the darkness and his ears rise to the possibility of a road trip. When I put my bags in his place in the back seat and close the doors without offering an “up”, he wanders dejectedly off for a pee and a quick sniff along the edges of the woods to see who’s visited during the night. He’s not coming with me and he knows it. 

We step back inside one last time and I squat down to console him. He won’t be happy to watch me leave and I hope that he won’t raise a ruckus. Truth is, I’m as disappointed to leave him as he is to be left. I cherish his companionship. So I explain to him why this trip is not for him and how tomorrow we’ll load up the trash and drive to the landfill together instead. I give him a final rub and slip out the door, gritting my teeth as I wait for the explosion. It doesn’t come. 

I slide into the driver’s seat, close the door as gently as I can and start the truck, turning the ignition key slowly as if that would make a difference. I swing around and ease up the ridge with just my running lights on so as not to splash the bedroom windows with my headlamps. I convince myself that Zep’s returned quietly to his pad, disappointed that he’s not with me, but still sleepy enough to let my departure slide.

The self-delusion is shattered just five minutes down the road when my cell phone lights up with a series of short messages from my wife. Enjoy the day. We’ll miss you. Love you bunches. A delicate pink heart follows the texts. The image is sweet, but I wonder if there exists an emoji of a crazed barking dog. If it does, she’d probably have sent it instead.