Every night, Mr. Willie sleeps at my feet just like those dogs you see curled up at the feet of effigies on medieval tombs. There is a pillow placed across the corner of the bed and this is his rightful place. Sometimes, when I roll over in the night, my feet meet the solid lump and I know it is Mr. Willie.
At first light, he wakes, strolls to the head of the bed, and gently licks my face. Typically, I open my eyes to confront him eyeballing me and then I roll over to sleep further because it is five in the morning. Mr. Willie is wide awake at the new day and cannot understand my reluctance.
Mr. Willie’s disappointed response will be to gently scratch my face to encourage me to rise. Once this is exhausted he leaps onto the floor, finds his favorite ball with a squeaker, and squeaks it lovingly to stir me from my slumber. So I roll over in bed, sit up, and our eyes meet as Mr. Willie looks up at me accusingly; he expects better than my sleepy-headed disinterest. He wants me to get up.
“Willie!” I yell, throwing back the covers as if I am about to rise. Mr. Willie runs from the room, eager to be the first in the great room, but I am too smart for him and pull back the covers over me to return to sleep. It works every time.
I know what Mr. Willie wants. He wants me to rise when he does so he can follow me into the bathroom to lick the pools of water in the shower. Then he follows me back into the bedroom where he watches me dress. Once this is complete he runs into the kitchen and pauses, preparing for the moment of triumph when we embrace the glorious day together by making him breakfast.
