What If My Dog Ran My Life?

If my dog, River, ran my life, the mornings wouldn’t begin with an alarm clock. They would start with him pressing his nose against my hand or pawing at the blanket until I opened my eyes. He wouldn’t let me stumble toward coffee first. He would lead me straight outside, where the air is always sharper and kinder than the stale breath of a room.

Breakfast would come next, and it wouldn’t be eaten in a hurry. River eats like it is the only meal in the world, and I think he would expect the same of me. One bite, then another, with nothing else in my hands. No phone. No lists. Just the food and the moment.

If River were in charge, the middle of the day would be made of walks. Not power-walks, not fitness walks. Wandering walks. Walks where you stop and look at things you would normally step over: a feather, a paw print, a scrap of leaf that looks like it doesn’t belong. He wouldn’t care if we only went as far as the corner, as long as we noticed what was there.

Work would still exist, I suppose. But it would be smaller. He would remind me, in the way he rests his head against my knee, that the world does not stop if I step away for a while.

Evenings would be for resting. River would stretch out, sigh, and give me that look that says, Come sit down. You’ve done enough. He would remind me that there is a kind of success in simply ending the day together.

If River ran my life, I think it would be less tidy but more true. More meals savoured. More pauses taken. More joy in the small and ordinary. He would keep the important things close at hand: food, play, rest, love. And if I forgot, he would nudge me back toward them with his nose, the way he always does.