“Do not go gentle into that good night … rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

— Dylan Thomas

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He’s dozing now. He dozes more than I do these days, just sitting there in his big chair pretending to be writing on that thing in his lap, then suddenly his fingers stop moving and his head droops and he’s gone. I’ve decided to find it cute.

We took the big walk today, and I can tell we went a street too far because he’s out. Even I was a little pooped.

But now supper is over and it’s getting late, and he was all set to start changing the time on his cutesy collection of “fun” clocks. Every year he goes through this on this day, and every year he forgets one of them. He thinks that just because I’m a dog that I don’t understand little things like that. I do. How can I help it? Why do they think that all we can understand is “Sit,” and “Lie down,” and “You wanna go outside?” when I couldn’t make it clearer that I have to go, by scratching the hell out of their door? I’ve been with them 10 years, and they never stop talking to one another, so how could I not help developing a vocabulary?

So when he forgets to wind one of his beloved clocks, and the next day his schedule is all messed up, he yells at her, who walks away. I can’t just walk away. I find a comfortable spot and I’m not moving. He’ll stop and then start up again when the news comes on.

But he promised she, who’s nicer to me than he is, that he would do clocks early this year, and this year he wouldn’t miss a one. See, “Daddy,” that’s what he wants to be called, (isn’t that precious?) collects clocks, not expensive ones, just “cute” ones, battery operated “art pieces” he calls them. “Dust catchers” she calls them.

He has about 15 of them, I think, and they all have to be reset except the clocks on his phone and on that thing in his lap, and the one out there in the garage, the “digital” car clock. They’re all a bunch of techie snobs. They automatically change time, well, la de dah to them. They don’t talk to his other clocks, the ones he keeps picking up in the fancy gift shops. They do talk to one another. I can hear them. Dogs are good at hearing inanimate object chatter.

There’s the square one with modern art all over it and a real singing bird on top. The bird came separately. He has to keep it wound up, it sings every hour. I hate that bird clock.

There’s the bicycle clock from Scotland or so it says. “Edinburgh Clock Company” he says aloud to all of his guests.

“Cafe de la Paris.” I can’t read of course, but I know the names of them all because he stands in front of them sometimes and reads them aloud. Isn’t that just precious? That’s what I love about him, he’s “precious.”

There’s one on the wall there that says it’s from London. She likes to tease him and remind that if you read the fine print it says “made in China.” I don’t know what China is or where it is, but when she says it, he gets annoyed and she chuckles. I love her chuckle. He’s an OK guy, but if she ever left, I’d be right behind her. Even a dog can take only so much clock reading.

Her favorite is the owl clock with a tail that swings back and forth. She loves that. She bought it for him last Christmas, but it was really for her I can tell. I notice that it’s the only one she dusts. He points it out to his guests along with all the others, especially the really good old ones like the cast iron “Art Deco” clock, whatever that means.

He has a favorite, a big antique clock he says was made in France. It must be true, because she doesn’t chuckle or tease him about that one. Every time she dusts it she reminds him that she bought it for him on their tenth anniversary. They both love it, but I hate it because it’s got this annoying bell and then late at night it lets go with a really long string of bongs that shock me out of sleep.

He’s finished changing the clocks now,and gone up to bed. I can’t wait until tomorrow when he discovers he forgot the car clock, and he’s late for something. He’ll start yelling, and she will chuckle and walk away. You know what? This time I think I’ll go with her.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.