Every morning at dawn, my dog Paul gets out of the bed, scopes the apartment for potential enemies, and has a drink of water.
Then he starts “sharking,” meaning he keeps his head low and circles the bed, like a shark closing in on its enemy. Instead of the appearance of dorsal fin triggering panic in his prey, it’s the jingle of his dog tags.
And instead of a plucky young seal, his prey is me, a woman who desperately wants to stay in bed. No matter what I do—pretend to be asleep, bargain with him, assertively tell him to stop, or sweetly ask him to come back and join me in bed—he sharks, and he sharks, and he sharks.