A Day in the Life of Chester and Me

by Craig Wynne
(Newport News, VA 23606)

A Day in the Life of Chester and Me

As I’m waking up, I can feel him biting my hand. “Don’t bite Daddy; that’s not very nice,” I say in jest. Of course, he can’t understand me, so he does it again. I roll over, and then he plops down on my stomach, laying there for about 20 minutes.

As I’m jumping out of bed, he jumps on the floor, and then tries to bite my feet. Again, I say, “Don’t bite Daddy; that’s not very nice.” He still can’t understand me, so he does it again. Cats: what are you gonna do? It’s 5:30 in the morning, and I haven’t had my daily dose of exercise, so I’m a little grumpy. Where’s that damn party hat? I think. I find it and hold it up in front of him, he goes after the string, I leave it on the floor, and we’re both good to go.

As I’m putting on my clothes, he grabs my leg. I say, “I know you don’t like when I go to school, but I have to bring home the bacon so I can buy you treats and toys and medicine and litter and food.” I then pick him up and give him five kisses. From there, I walk over to his food bowl, while he scampers, so I pour his treats in the bowl. He knows just how to work his Daddy.

At the end of a long day, I pull into the parking lot, excited to see my son. As I open the door, he’s waiting right there. The routine: I put my bag down, and place my stomach to the refrigerator. “Come on, Chester, you know what to do,” I say in my baby talk voice. He then grabs my hind leg. From there, I pick him up, cradle him close to my chest, lie down on the bed, and let him walk on my stomach for a few minutes while he licks my hand, elbow, and fingers. After a few minutes of that, he jumps down to the floor and looks at me. I know what that look indicates. And he’s earned it.

I walk over to his food and water bowls, located by the closet, while he scampers. “Treats!” I say, once again in my baby talk voice, while I pour his tuna crunch snacks into his food bowl.

Nighttime, my brain is a pile of mush. All I want to do is lie on the couch and watch my old Simpsons DVDs. As I’m laughing uproariously at Homer falling down the stairs for about the 500th time, Chester sits below the couch, looking at me. “Come here! Come here!” I say, slapping my hand against a leg. Chester follows the command, jumps on my lap, and after about a minute of (I assume) wondering where he is, he plops down on my stomach and stays there the rest of the episode. I end up drifting off to sleep. About twenty minutes later, he’s still chilling, not a care in the world. Dogs as man’s best friend? Not in my domain.

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