By Kason Williamson | The Trouble Journal
Let me tell y’all something about owning a golden retriever.
Everybody talks about how loyal they are.
How loving they are.
How they’re man’s best friend.
What nobody tells you is that apparently, when you bring one home, you surrender every right you ever had to sleep in.
At least that’s how it works around here.
And his name is Tucker.
The Six-Thirty Wake-Up Call
Saturday morning.
Six-thirty.
I’m sound asleep, having what I’m pretty sure was an excellent dream, when suddenly I feel something cold and wet against my face.
I open one eye.
There’s Tucker.
Standing beside my bed with his nose approximately two inches from mine.
Staring.
Just staring.
“Buddy. No.”
His tail starts wagging.
“No, Tucker. Go lay down.”
He makes this little groaning sound like I’ve personally offended him.
Then he puts one enormous paw on the mattress.
Now, Tucker knows he’s not supposed to wake me up like that.
We’ve discussed it.
Several times, actually.
But Tucker has a very simple philosophy when it comes to rules.
They’re more like suggestions.
Especially when breakfast is involved.
So there I am, a grown man negotiating with a golden retriever at six-thirty on a Saturday morning.
And somehow, I’m losing.
Coffee First. Everything Else Second.
Eventually, I give up.
I stumble into the kitchen, start making coffee, and Tucker follows me so closely I’m surprised I haven’t tripped over him yet.
He gets his breakfast.
I get my coffee.
He eats his breakfast in approximately forty-five seconds.
I sit down at the kitchen table and try to remember what it feels like to be well-rested.
And then he brings me his tennis ball.
Of course he does.
“Tucker, it’s not even seven.”
He drops the ball at my feet.
I ignore it.
He picks it up and drops it again.
I continue ignoring it.
He picks it up, walks around the table, and drops it directly into my lap.
I swear that dog understands every word I say.
He just chooses not to listen.
Honestly, I respect the commitment.
The Backyard Incident
By eight o’clock, I’ve finished my second coffee and decided we might as well go outside.
It’s a nice morning.
The air is cool, the sun is coming through the trees, and everything’s quiet.
For about thirty seconds.
I throw the ball.
Tucker runs after it.
I throw it again.
He brings it back.
We’re having ourselves a pretty good time.
And then he spots a squirrel.
Now, if you’ve ever watched a golden retriever discover a squirrel, you know the look.
His entire body freezes.
His ears perk up.
His tail stops moving.
And suddenly he’s convinced he’s a highly trained hunting dog instead of a spoiled house pet who sleeps on expensive furniture.
“Tucker. Don’t.”
He looks at me.
Looks at the squirrel.
Looks back at me.
I know what’s coming.
He takes off across the yard like he’s been launched out of a cannon.
The squirrel disappears up a tree.
Tucker reaches the bottom, looks up, and starts barking like he’s just accomplished something remarkable.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there holding a tennis ball, wondering how my Saturday morning turned into a wildlife investigation.
The squirrel was fine, by the way.
Tucker’s dignity?
Questionable.
The Best Kind of Company
We eventually made it back inside.
I fixed myself some breakfast, and Tucker settled down beside the kitchen table.
He gave me those big brown eyes every time I took a bite.
Now, I’m not saying he’s manipulative.
I’m just saying he’s very good at getting what he wants.
Later that afternoon, we went for a walk.
Nothing particularly exciting happened.
We wandered along one of our usual trails, stopped whenever Tucker discovered something worth smelling, and enjoyed the sunshine.
At one point, we sat down near a little creek.
Tucker stretched out beside me, panting happily, and I leaned back against a tree.
And I realized something.
That dog drives me absolutely crazy sometimes.
He wakes me up too early.
He tracks dirt through the house.
He steals my spot on the couch.
He somehow manages to get his fur on clothes I haven’t even worn yet.
But I wouldn’t trade him for anything.
There’s something pretty special about having somebody who’s genuinely excited to see you every single day.
Somebody who doesn’t care what kind of mood you’re in.
Somebody who’s perfectly happy just sitting beside you while the world goes by.
Even if that somebody occasionally tries to eat a leaf for no apparent reason.
My Partner in Crime
People sometimes ask me what I like most about living in Asheville.
Usually, I tell them it’s the mountains.
Or the scenery.
Or having so many places to explore.
And all of that’s true.
But some of my favourite moments aren’t the big adventures.
They’re the simple ones.
Saturday mornings.
Coffee on the porch.
A walk through the woods.
Tucker sleeping at my feet while I watch something on television.
I guess life doesn’t always have to be exciting to be good.
Sometimes the little things are the best things.
Although I wouldn’t mind sleeping past seven o’clock every once in a while.
Just saying.
Anyway, it’s getting late, and Tucker is currently standing beside the door with his leash in his mouth.
Apparently, we’re going somewhere.
Again.
— Kason
P.S. If anybody knows how to convince a golden retriever that Saturdays are for sleeping in, I’m accepting suggestions.