22. March 2026

Nine (or Half Eight) Sharp

Every morning, usually around nine — sometimes half eight if they’re feeling particularly keen — two eager Labradors wake me with licks and wagging tails, ready for breakfast. I’m usually grumpy and half asleep, but it still raises a small smile.

There’s no easing into the day. They’re hungry, and they’re not subtle about it. It starts with a nudge, then licks, then whining until I get up. It’s like they’ve never been fed before. It’s the same every day, and they’re completely certain about it.

Breakfast is dealt with quickly. No hesitation, no distractions — just focus. Once they’re done, I let them out into the garden for a quick wee and wait at the door while they get on with it. It’s routine, nothing special on the surface, just the start of the day like any other.

But then they come back in, and instead of settling downstairs, they go straight to the bottom of the stairs and wait. No fuss, no noise — just waiting. They know exactly what’s coming next. When I’m not working, we go back up together, tails wagging again, straight back to bed like it’s the best part of their morning.

That’s the bit that sticks with me. Not the excitement for food, but what comes after. They don’t need to go back to bed. They’re not tired. They just want to be where I am.

People talk about loyalty like it’s something big, but most of the time it looks like this. Waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Following you back to bed. Choosing to be close, even when nothing’s happening.

It’s easy to overlook because it’s so ordinary. But it’s there every day — in the routine, in the repetition, in the fact they’d rather be next to you than anywhere else. And that’s probably what makes it matter.

And that’s why they’re this man’s best friend — equal with my wife, obviously.