We bought a dog bed for Maud when she was a puppy, which in hindsight was very optimistic of us. It was immediately clear she would never use it. Instead, she installed herself in our bed like a permanent fixture, often wedged directly between my husband and me, her head on the pillow with her legs stretched out like a human. The look on her face suggested a genuine confusion about our expectations. How, exactly, did we imagine she was supposed to sleep on a sad little circular mat on the floor?
I have spent countless nights clinging to the outer edge of our bed, suspended like a person who lost a game of musical chairs. We eventually bought a king-sized bed specifically to accommodate our growing, full-sized goldendoodle, never once considering that we might want to discourage her from sleeping with us. That would have felt cruel, even if we had to knock down a wall to make space for a bigger bed. We live in a second floor apartment above my husband’s surf and scuba business on Water Street, and while some might argue that a king-sized bed is excessive for a small home, those people have clearly never lived with a doodle. When you bring a life-sized teddy bear into your life, you make room.
Now that Maud is a 65-pound real-life muppet, she’s occasionally the one who needs space from us. She still starts every night in our bed, but once we’ve all drifted off, she sometimes wakes and slowly saunters into the living room, curling up in her favourite chair. From there, she can still see us, but she also has a clear view of Water Street through the window. It’s the perfect vantage point: close enough to monitor her people, far enough away to enjoy the cool independence of her own seat.
I’m almost always the first one up in the morning. If Maud is in her chair, I kiss her sleepy head on my way to the shower. This is not just affection–it’s activation. Like a human hitting the snooze button, Maud jumps down, stretches dramatically, and with her eyes half-open slowly makes her way back to the bedroom where her Dad is still asleep.
She climbs onto him, places both paws on his shoulders, rests her head gently on one of them, and just… stays there.
This is Patrick’s alarm clock. And I am deeply jealous of it.
I have tried–repeatedly–to convince her to do the same thing with me. I’ve pleaded. I’ve patted the bed. I’ve made myself emotionally available. I’ve even put her favourite liver treat on my shoulder while lying down and
trying to coerce her into the same cuddle formation. She will not. This is clearly their ritual, a sacred father-daughter moment she refuses to dilute by sharing it with anyone but her Dad. I’ve accepted my role as witness. I stand quietly in the doorway, watching, like someone who has wandered into a monastery by accident and understands that even breathing too loudly would be disrespectful.
Even after I’m showered and am back in the bedroom getting ready, they remain locked in their morning cuddle. Sometimes they’re both snoring, deep in whatever dream world they share. Other times they’re awake, silent, and staring into space with matching expressions, clearly gathering themselves for the day ahead. It’s how they begin: together, unhurried, bracing for the world before stepping out the door.
The spell only breaks when Maud sees me put my shoes on. That means it’s time for her morning walk with her Mom to her Granny’s house on Edward Street, a route rich with squirrel activity and therefore not to be missed.
This is how our mornings begin. It’s our routine. It’s simple, and somehow it’s everything I didn’t know I needed until it was ours.
And, maybe, at its essence, that’s what love is.
