The Dog Ate My Get-Up-and-Go

I woke up this morning determined to tackle the day. Not with energy, exactly, but at least with pants on. That’s progress at 65.

Buddy, my ever-faithful mutt, stared at me like he wasn’t buying it. He’s got this way of watching me—head tilted, eyebrows doing half the work—that makes me feel like I should explain myself. So I did.

“I’m going to get going. Right after coffee. Maybe shave. Maybe not.”

He blinked.

The truth is, lately, I’ve been dragging. Not sad, exactly, just off.

Like my get-up-and-go got up and left without so much as a note on the fridge.

I blamed the heat, the news, the neighbor’s rooster—but mostly, I think I’ve just fallen out of rhythm, my days blending and no clear beat to walk to.

So I sat outside with my mug and Buddy curled under the bench, panting like he’d just run a marathon in his dreams. I watched the shadows shorten, thought about the weeds I wasn’t pulling and the laundry I wasn’t folding, and I heard myself say out loud, “Maybe today just needs one good thing.”

That was it. One thing, and not a to-do list, or a life overhaul. Just one good thing.

I started small. I watered the plant that’s somehow survived our benign neglect. Then I texted my son a dumb joke about jalapeños—something about Hollapinos being the kids of a Dutch-Filipino couple.

He responded with three crying-laughing emojis and a “Dad, no,” which made it feel like a win.

Later, I found myself putting on real pants—not the good jeans, mind you, but not sweats either. That led to a slow walk with Buddy, who sniffed every bush like it held state secrets.

We waved to the new mail lady. She waved back. And wouldn’t you know it, the day didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Now, sitting on the porch as the sun slips down behind the hills, I’m sipping a splash of whiskey and thinking about that one good thing. It turns out, when you aim small, you still move forward.

And if tomorrow feels sluggish too, well, I know what to do. Just one thing.

That’s enough to keep the beat.