I usually go to bed around midnight, and sometimes much later, but I barely make it to eleven on Tuesday. I’m completely wiped out. Plus, I take some Benadryl because I’m “suffering” from “allergies,” and that stuff always knocks me out. I sleep like a rock. I wake up early and decide I might as well get an early start on doing nothing. It’s good practice anyway, since I’ll have to start getting up for school again in like five days. Not looking forward to that.

Mom is running late and surprised to see me before she leaves. She’s standing in the kitchen, dressed super sharp and carrying an enormous travel mug of coffee, even though she travels less than a mile to the office.

“You look like a politician,” I say, grabbing the cereal box and getting started on breakfast.

“That’s me,” she says. “You look like a sleepy, rumpled teenager.”

“That’s me,” I say. I guess we’ve got each other figured out.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks.

“Gotta milk the chickens and feed the cows,” I say.

“Well, how about walking the dog while you’re at it?”

I have to admit, it fits right in on my list of imaginary farm chores, but I don’t think so. “Nah,” I say. “Kind of hoping to get through the day without getting mauled.”

“I’ll put the leash on for you,” she says.

“He’ll let you?” I say.

“Sure, I’ve done it before.”

“Dude,” I call over my shoulder into the living room. I want to say, “Bros before hos,” but it’s my mom, so that’s pretty much out of the question. I think about it for a second. “Brothas before mothas!” I shout.

We both laugh at that, and then I can’t figure out how to get back to no from there. Mom barely waits for my response anyway. She puts down her travel mug, picks up the leash, and heads into the living room. I listen for a growl or anything like that, but all I hear is the sound of metal clicking on metal and then both of them heading back to the kitchen.

“Out!” Mom announces once they arrive.

“I’m not done,” I say, pointing to my cereal.

“It will be there when you get back,” she says.

It will be milk paste when I get back, but she’s made up her mind, and I guess I’m curious to see if this will actually work.

“Out!” she repeats, except this time she’s talking to the dog. He’s walking more or less normally on the end of a blue nylon leash. She opens the door in front of her, and they both head out into the yard. I follow after them, bringing her travel mug and closing the door behind me. It’s not as hot today, and the sun is half hidden behind some low clouds.

I hand Mom the mug and she hands me the leash. JR’s body language changes immediately. His head shoots back and forth between us, registering the bait and switch. His shoulders slump and his brown legs fold halfway to the ground. His eyes flash with confusion and something worse, maybe betrayal.

“Geez,” I say. It’s hard not to take it personally.

“He’ll be fine once you get going,” says Mom, already walking toward the car.

“Was he like this the first time you walked him?” I say.

“Not exactly,” she calls back. “But then, I’d showered.”

The car pulls out and it’s just the two of us: an unwashed dude and a slouching dog. I don’t trust him, and he doesn’t trust me, but we can’t stay there forever. “Come on, man,” I say. “You were walking fine for her. What, ’cause she has a suit?”

He’s not listening to me as much as watching me talk. His ears are back in a way that looks hostile. “Come on, man,” I repeat. A car goes by, and then another. Finally, I give the leash a little tug. It feels like pulling the pin out of a grenade. I’m thinking, Yep, this is the part where he jumps up and bites my neck off.

Instead, he takes a step. It’s a small one, but it’s not toward my neck. I give the leash another little tug, and he takes another little step. He’s still crouched down, and his legs are still bent halfway between sitting and standing, but those were definitely steps. I give the leash another tug.

“I can do this for as long as my throat remains in my body,” I say. “So you’re going to have to go ahead and bite my head off now or get moving.”

His ears come forward. I think that means he’s listening.

“Big Dog,” I say.

I start walking, just little steps.

He does, too.

I lengthen out my strides.

He straightens out his legs.

Holy crap, we’re walking.

He’s at the absolute maximum distance from me that the leash will allow, but he’s no longer even looking at me. He’s looking around. Our neighbors’ door opens and closes and he checks it out. A bird lands on the grass ten yards away and he watches it. It takes off again and he follows it the whole way, his head tracking it up and back.

“That’s right,” I say to the bird. “You better run!”

He watches me say that too, but I’m just another sight now, and a second later he’s looking at something else. He loves this stuff, and by the time we reach the edge of the backyard, it’s like he’s almost forgotten that I’m there.

Once we reach the bike path, his head is all over the place, sniffing the ground one moment and peering into the bushes the next. I’d never spent enough time around a dog before to realize this, but they have a lot of the same expressions as people. Before, when I saw one on TV or whatever, I used to think: That’s funny, it almost looks like he’s sad or happy or whatever. Now I’m looking down at JR, and I realize he really is smiling, a big, drooly dog smile. He’s happy just to be outside and moving. I guess after years of being chained to a tree and covered in ticks you can’t quite reach, that’s about as good as it gets.

“This isn’t so bad, huh, boy?” I say.

He looks back at me. I sort of expect the smile to drop off his face, but it doesn’t. I know he’s not smiling at me — that he’s probably doing it despite me — but I’m glad he keeps doing it. The bent tree is coming up, and I start to angle us over toward that side of the trail so I can give it my standard slap. “This is my tree, JR,” I say.

He looks back at me, sniffs the tree once, and lifts his leg.

“That is just wrong!” I say, but I’m laughing.

We take our time and make it almost all the way to the bridge before turning around. Afterward, I manage to get the leash off him without too much trouble, but he definitely gets weird again once we’re back inside, and he heads straight to his corner in the living room. So it’s not like all of a sudden we completely understand each other, but it was a good walk. I think we’re both surprised.

I spot my phone on the kitchen table, next to my liquefied cereal. No calls, no texts, nothing. As I’m checking, I realize something stinks in here. I take a few deep whiffs and, sure enough, it’s me. I’m rank. I get some clean clothes and head to the bathroom to shower. Might as well do this right. I’ve got something to do later, and I don’t want to show up looking like the Swamp Thing.

Hey, Johnny didn’t bite my head off today. Maybe Janie won’t, either.