I never see the morning dog. I hear it, though, four to five days a week, caterwauling without stop — seemingly without taking a breath.
Each bark starting at a growl, ending in a howl of high falsetto.
His pained sounds bouncing off of, between, and even behind the tony townhouses of East 84th Street.
Starting around 6:15 a.m., it lasts for never longer than 15 minutes.
But it is steady, constant, and unwavering.
And this dog is not in motion when barking.
It is obviously leashed to a parking meter or a lamppost while its owner is otherwise engaged.
In what? I don't know or care, and, more importantly, neither does the dog.
It only immediately misses its master and wants him or her — and anyone else who can hear — to know how much it misses, and needs, its companion.
And of how much it is thinking of him or her.
For this dog, there is no other agenda in the world, in life, than to be back in the arms of its loving friend, its human parent.
And as the morning dog's loud and guttural echoes awaken, annoy, and disturb my neighbors, they only make me envious.
For I could never see myself out on the sidewalk incessantly calling out for someone at the top of my lungs.
I would be deemed and considered insane, and promptly led and put away.
But the morning dog suffers no such shame, no such judgment.
I wish I could be your morning dog, not caring who else I awakened, annoyed, or disturbed, as I — with all my heart and energy — growl and howl and cry out for you.
For your return.
For your companionship and friendship.
For your nearness and love.