the verdict
There are days I am fairly certain the Boyz hold staff meetings.
Not the loud sort. Captain isn’t much for speeches, and Morgan has never met a thought he couldn’t outrun. Still, every now and then I’ll catch them sitting together in the den, heads tilted toward one another, and you can almost hear the agenda.
Item one: Kevin.
I came to this conclusion the other night.
I’d gone to bed early. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those ordinary Tuesdays where the day quietly uses up everything you had to give.
I barely had the covers pulled up before I heard feet hit the floor.
Captain appeared first, because Captain always arrives like someone responding to a maintenance request. Morgan bounded in behind him carrying the rope toy with the confidence of a surgeon bringing the only instrument he’ll need.
Apparently I had been misdiagnosed.
I wasn’t tired.
I required rope.
Morgan laid it across my chest.
Captain watched.
Neither one looked remotely concerned that I’d chosen sleep over tug-of-war. They simply waited for me to recognize my mistake.
I’ve reached the age where two dogs can silently convince me I’m making poor life choices.
Then there was the PF Chang’s incident.
I had brought home spicy chicken, the good order, which is one of the few meals in this house that belongs exclusively to me. Not because I’m selfish. Because spicy chicken and golden retrievers are a relationship no veterinarian should ever have to referee.
I finished the last bite standing over the carton.
When I turned around, they were both sitting there.
No whining.
No pawing.
Just… disappointment.
Not because I hadn’t shared. They know perfectly well I don’t hand out spicy food.
It was the fact that I’d enjoyed something while they hadn’t been invited into the experience. In their minds, that seemed fundamentally contrary to the rules of civilization.
You start wondering if maybe they’re onto something.
The verdict became official last Tuesday.
The Ring doorbell chimed.
If you’ve owned a house for any length of time, you develop instincts. School fundraisers. Pest control. Internet providers. Somebody selling enough wrapping paper to insulate Manitoba.
I glanced at the camera.
Kid with a wagon.
I did what responsible adults everywhere do.
I became invisible.
The Boyz have never accepted this strategy.
Captain walked to the front door and sat beside it without making a sound. Not blocking me. Just… holding his post, as though someone should probably answer.
Morgan came looking for me.
He found me in the office pretending intense concentration on absolutely nothing.
He looked at me.
Then toward the front door.
Back to me.
Then back toward the front door again.
His tail never stopped.
It wasn’t accusation.
It was confusion.
“There’s a person here.”
I stayed put.
Morgan sighed in the theatrical way only retrievers can sigh, trotted back to Captain, then returned for a second attempt, certain I’d misunderstood the assignment the first time.
By then I almost wanted to open the door just to avoid disappointing him.
I didn’t.
Eventually the wagon rolled down the driveway toward the next house.
Captain watched until it disappeared.
Morgan wandered back into the office, leaned against my leg for a moment, and rested his chin on my knee.
There wasn’t an ounce of judgment in it.
Only the quiet certainty that I’d missed an opportunity to meet someone.
That’s the thing I’ve learned from living with these two.
People spend a lot of time wondering whether dogs judge us.
I don’t think they do.
I think they simply assume we’re trying our best.
When we skip the walk because we’re tired, they bring the rope.
When we hide in the office because someone knocked, they come looking for us.
When we eat something wonderful, they think the joy should probably be shared.
They move through the world believing every visitor might become a friend, every evening deserves one more game, and every day can still be improved with the simple act of showing up.
It’s an impossibly optimistic way to live.
Most days I fall short of it.
Fortunately, the committee meets again tomorrow
