The old man that sits on my bed, looking out the window


His perch, on a fluffy tan blanket, offers a breathtaking, spectacular bird’s eye view of my front stoop and driveway. The perfect spot to see cars drive up and down the road, waiting to see if mom is home, Koda waits for his humans. 

Koda, my little Yorkie, is bigger than most his breed. He is scruffy sixty percent of the time, the other forty percent of the time fluffy with a hairstyle that mimics the early 2010s. He has dark brown eyes and a small patch of black fur on his hip. 

He gazes at the food cooking on the stove with hungry eyes, wishing that his sheer willpower alone would get crumbs to levitate out of the pot and land on the floor. Half the time, as he sits and begs, he finds himself being stepped on by dads heavy boots. 

He groans as I pick him off the floor and set him on my lap. Sometimes, he’ll freak out and jump right back off, others he will sit as I scratch the spot under the collar. 

Koda sleeps most of the day in his crate, only to sit up silently when I walk in the door after school. He sprints out the door and jangles his bone-shaped tag as he makes his way back to me. If I take too long to pour his food into his bowl, he will growl and woof. 

Like a word about to be spoken, his gaze falls on me, ready, always. 

In the nights, a blanket on mom’s lap is where I find him curled up, dozing his time away. Some days, I’ll blow on his face to tease him. It is no surprise that he will nip and yelp at me when I don’t want to stop. 

He likes to tug, in fact, that’s all he does. Whether it be a plastic bone, rubber ring, small ball, or any sized stick he will not let go.

Sure, it is all fun in games until dad gets down on the floor and starts playing. Koda will pounce and nab at dad’s hands, high-pitched yips ringing into the air. He jumps back and forth acting like a much larger dog than he actually is. 

Koda, however, much like most people I know, loves people the most. My uncle, who spent a special night, will always recognize his scent, my aunt, who is basically the dog whisperer, spoils him with treats, and the bus drivers that always have something small to gift him to my small family of four. 

I win him over with a small box of treats trucked onto my shelf, my brother codles him with blankets galore, and dad never fails to make nights while waiting for dinner wound up and full of energy. 

However, he likes nobody else like mom. Whether it be walks or mornings with coffee, Koda will never leave her side. It makes me jealous most of the time. When Koda gets really content he will flash his teeth in a slight mockery-type smile. An endearing way to show her he cares no matter how many other dogs she has seen. 

Even now, as I write this, the dog is sitting at the foot of my bed, waiting for something with his single ear perked and his other flopping down his face. He looks at me as if anticipating me to say magical words like treat, food, outside, or even bath. Like a word about to be spoken, his gaze falls on me—ready, always. 

Sometimes, I do wonder how surprised I would be if he actually spoke to me one day.