It’s 4:30 in the morning, and Nate finally rocking his way out the bed. Can’t just throw his leg over and get up since the stroke. I been laying here listening to Chumley whine about a hour, hoping — naw, praying — Nate wake up and let that dog out before he make a mess all in that crate. He make a mess, that’s on me. I’m the one got to clean it. Nate right hand don’t work good enough, and sometimes I get in there to clean and find dried-up mess from I-don’t-know-when after he done tried to clean it up. So I just lay here, cause Nate need to start understanding Chumley belong to him.