6 a.m.

Time to rouse my mistress.

She’s been stirring around long enough this morning — teasing me twice by getting out of bed to go do her business. Enough is enough! I’m hungry.

Pouncing on her belly, I stride across her breast, and lick her face. A slight wince, an irritated groan, aaand she wakes. Mission accomplished.

She lumbers down the stairs, slowly sloughing off the night’s slumber. I’ve come to realize breakfast is always better after she ingests her daily dose of caffeine. Without it, she’s liable to forget to top my kibble with a healthy dollop of yogurt. Why humans need liquid stimulants to jumpstart their morning is lost on me. Isn’t sunshine and the promise of a good day’s frolic enough? But I need me some probiotics (I can be quite the flatulent pooch without them), so I can’t begrudge her cup of coffee.

Eating makes me drowsy, hence my quick nap on her lap. She watches the morning shows. I heard her tell her human friends she is striving to shed a few pounds. I’m guessing she can’t just simply shake them off like last season’s winter coat. Sounds like a loathsome process judging by the excuses she spouts. Hope she doesn’t lose too many. Her squishy thighs make a comfy pillow.

8:30 rolls around — walk time!! I chase my tail to demonstrate how excited I am to go outside. Deftly catching it, I perform the aerial whirly jig that makes her giggle. It’s gratifying to see her smile.

She has to brush her teeth first. Apparently, humans don’t like to broadcast what they have just eaten. I think it proves they are well-fed, but there’s no stopping her. It’s challenging to be patient when she takes so long to primp. I snatch a sock she left on the bathroom floor and skedaddle up and down the stairs. Come on already!

At long last, she grabs the harness. I’m frisky with anticipation. Doing my best to move things along, I try to thread my paws through the loops just like I’ve seen her don her human clothes. But I can barely contain my composure, zigging when she zags. It takes forever!

Out the door we go. I enjoy walking my person, tugging at the leash so she will quicken her step. Her mother hopes she will meet a nice male human on these excursions. Don’t think that will happen though; I bark at almost anyone passing by — whatever their species. They need to keep away. I covet all her attention.

I lift my leg like a boy when I urinate. No princess squats for me. With a whiz and a kick I declare, “This bitch has been here!”

Thankfully, my mistress doesn’t attempt to dress me up like a doll. The only clothing for me is my yellow rain slicker. With el Nino and all, it’s good to be prepared. Most of the time, I am au natural. I’d hate it if she puffed my fur like one of those teddy bear Pomeranians. You’re a dog, not a stuffed child’s toy. Own your canine self!

My lineage is maltipoo, one of the older, more established designer breeds. My kind were cultivating their human companions long before nouveau breeds like the labradoodle and puggle came along.

After 30 minutes, we return. I’m all tuckered out and make a beeline for my water bowl. When she was feeling especially ill, our outings were 15 minutes — tops — before she began panting more than me. I think she endeavors to make our walks longer. I’m going to have to start building up my endurance.

Sometimes my mistress leaves for while — sometimes almost the entire day. I don’t like being left alone, but I try to make the best of it. She counts on me to stay on guard to protect our domicile. When she returns, I do my customary hippy hop dance greeting. She says I prance like a circus dog. Then, I present her with every toy in my bucket. More often than not, I can guilt her into playing with me.

When I’m feeling a little aggressive, I like to play with the tug o’ war rope. I grimace and growl as my human yanks it side-to-side and tries wrangling it from my vicious grip. Most of the time, she fails, because I am just that powerful. My mistress even growls back at me. She’s cool like that.

The little yellow tennis ball is my favorite. If thrown properly, I can catch it high in the air. That’s my primo trick. Usually, it bounces across the floor and I must scamper quickly to get it before it rolls under the ottoman. Ugh! Then I have to wait for her to retrieve it. She is not always prompt and I need to whine and bark for her to come. Patience isn’t my virtue.

My human has littered two misters. They are off “getting their education” the majority of the time. Honestly, I don’t know what you need to learn besides don’t poop where you eat and what’s the best spot in the house to sneak a snooze. I’m only permitted in their rooms when they are home. Still looking out for a chance to investigate behind those forbidden doors.

Occasionally, I can tell my mistress is unsettled, heartsick even. I think she is pining for her lost mate. I’ve seen him in photographs, but he hasn’t been back to the house since before I was adopted. He must not have been microchipped or maybe he has gone to forever sleep.

On her troublesome days, I’ll catch her sobbing in the shower. Hefty people tears slither down her face and harmonize with the faucet’s cascade. Thankfully, these episodes are becoming less frequent. Other days, she’ll weep gently as we watch TV. Drip drops of sorrow plop on my back and curl my fur before she caresses them away. She’s especially melancholy after the misters leave. I do my best to cheer her up. Snuggling seems to distract her from her distress. If she scratches under my chin, I gaze back at her with tender eyes that telegraph my devotion.

6:00 p.m. Dinner time! WooHoo! I know better than to beg for people scraps, so by this time, I’d consume the fuzz off my tennis ball. Sometimes, I get a midday treat for sitting up like a proper lady. I can also cajole a spoonful of peanut butter from my mistress if I play the cuteness card.

Periodically, my human will entertain some of her female friends. They slurp colored drinks out of clear, slender-stemmed glasses and laugh. Munching on assorted nibbles and treats, they discuss their litters and the things that occur beyond our neighborhood. Once in a while, they plot to find a mate for my mistress. This again! As long as he realizes that I take priority in her affections, I might agree to it.

A while later, we take a brief jaunt outside so I can drain my bladder before bed. Our abode has a little patio, but no grass. My human knows I will only relieve myself on concrete when highly necessary. She calls me a prima donna. What can I say? A girl has to have certain standards.

Once abed, I nestle up in the crook of her legs and drift off to sleep. I dream about chasing the neighbor’s cat, bacon, and peeing on the cable guy’s ladder. I don’t know what my mistress’ dreams are about. I hope they include me.