In my younger days, I’d scroll past 6:00 AM on the clock radio while setting an alarm, but I never actually considered getting up at that time. Honestly, why would you? I may have gone to bed around then once or twice, but I’ve never been a morning person.
That is, until I got a dog. A dog I absolutely, positively did not want.
My daughter Grace spent two years wearing me down. Like the ocean against stone, her persistence eroded my resistance. After one too many visits to the local animal shelter, I caved. I couldn’t leave behind that tiny, seven-week-old pup.
They say the strongest bond is between a grumpy dad and the puppy he didn’t want. I can confirm—that’s 100% true.
Hazel wakes up early every morning, ready for breakfast and then a slow stroll under the rising Northeast Ohio sun. We’re lucky to live in a semi-rural area with protected old-growth woods—Red Oak,Sugar Maple, Shagbark and Bitternut Hickory, and of course, our beloved Buckeye. The local parks are filled with these giants, and the creatures of the forest thrive among them.
On one average morning, Hazel and I reached our favorite park just as it opened at 7:00 AM. The sun seemed reluctant, as if hung over from the night before, groaning as it dragged itself above the horizon. Deep reds and yellows streaked the dark blue sky. The grass still bore the pattern of mower blades, and the dew-laden tall grass flanked the paths.The temperature sat comfortably in the high 50s, the air alive with birdsong.
Hazel darted from window to window in the backseat, watching for dogs, offering low “woofs” of commentary, her nose prints creating abstract snot-art on the glass. I shifted into park, stuffed treats and poop bags into my pockets, and off we went.
As we approached the tunnel under the road, two women with dogs followed behind—one with a young, enthusiastic Border Collie, the other with an older Irish Setter who, like the sun, seemed tired of starting new days.
Hazel, however, is a gladiator. She has no fear and considers larger dogs an exciting challenge. So I’ve developed a technique: kneel beside her, hug her tight, and whisper, “These are our friends, Hazel… You’re such a good girl.” Usually, it works.
We pulled to the side, let them pass, and Hazel stayed calm in my arms. I rewarded her with hugs, scratches, and a treat.
“That’s a good girl. Thank you, sweet girl…”
The Border Collie’s walker smiled. “Thank you,sir. That’s so nice of you.”
And then the other woman added, “I love your hat! It’s so very French!”
Naturally, I replied, “Merci beaucoup,” and we all shared a laugh. A small, pleasant moment of neighborliness.
After they walked on, I let them get a good lead before we continued. I thought about the exchange, about how naturally I followed her compliment with “merci beaucoup,” just to keep the moment warm and connected. I think I’ve always been good at that—playing along, making people feel welcome.
I wondered: where did I pick that up?
As we settled back into our rhythm, I started to think about that “so very French” comment. About how people might see me. I don’t dwell on that stuff much anymore. One of the benefits of aging is caring far less about what others think. I wish I’d learned that sooner. Looking back,I realize I wasted far too much energy worrying about appearances.
I’m five foot six, trying to stay that way. My hair’s been gone since I was twenty. I shave my head every Monday and haven’t seen a barber in decades—easy, economical, DIY. My beard? White and longer than my wife would like. But that’s a win-win. I enjoy combing it; she enjoys being mildly annoyed. Ask any long-married guy—it’s a beautiful thing.
The asphalt path stretched ahead beneath a towering canopy. It was cool and quiet. The ladies and their dogs were far ahead now, their voices fading. The forest sounds returned—birdsong, insects, the breeze whooshing in my earbuds, my left sneaker squeaking with every step. Hazel’s nails clicked softly on the path as she darted back and forth, following the stories left by raccoons, deer, squirrels.
She looked back at me as if to say, “Dude, isn’t this the best day ever?”
And she was right. Every step was perfect.
So maybe it was the hat. Just a regular old straw hat, extra-large to fit my oversized head. Add the white beard, the legit artsy guy vibe, and a real love for all things Van Gogh. Yeah. That’s probably why it looked “so very French.”
I hope Vincent had a dog too.
