Orion runs to his water bowl, stuffing his face into the metal dish that scoots along the linoleum floor. He licks the bottom as if he will dig his own well right into the ground, but no water emerges.
"Orion, I have to cut you off or you'll pee all night and we'll never get any sleep." He reproachfully whines up at me, brown eyes imploring me to make one little exception.
"You are the Alpha dog. If you bend to the dog's wishes, the pack order changes," I hear ringing in my head, like the voice of God rather than just a line in the Labrador Retriever's For Dummies book.
It's three AM. Our fourth trip outside.
"Fine. Just a little. Only because I'm thirsty too," I say, filling the bottom of the dish with the cloudy water of my city.
I pull open the fridge. Juice, juice, juicy box, lemonade juicy box, soy milk one, soy milk two, orange juice. Single egg. Jar of spaghetti sauce. Pack of cheese.
Priorities.
I look over at Orion's full food bowl, untouched. Empty water bowl.
They say your dog grows up to share your characteristics.
I grab a juicy box and head to bed.
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