That is currently the quote on my favorite greeting card. Winnie Lew has a bladder of steel and would stay in bed until 10:00 in the morning if I’d let her. She also has the regularity of a train schedule when it comes to her morning constitutional.

That said, there is nothing worse than when your dog, who does indeed sleep in your bed, is whimpering in your face and standing on your chest at 12:15 a.m., 2:30 a.m., 3:30 a.m., and 4:30 a.m. The only reason Winnie Lew would do this is because she has an upset stomach and needs to go out.

Without opposable thumbs, she depends on me to let her out.

So at 12:15 a.m., I drag myself out of bed, fumble for my glasses, try to find my shoes, and stumble to the back door.

Winnie Lew dances as I try to put her harness on as she is looking back at me with that urgent expression that says, “Human, if you don’t hurry, there will be consequences we’ll both regret.” Once she is appropriately tethered to me, she makes a beeline for her favorite spot in the middle of the backyard.

I stand there in my mismatched pajamas, shivering in the night air, waiting for her to finish.

We come back in, and I get a washcloth and clean her rear end fluff. She clearly needed to go, if you know what I mean.

“Good girl,” I mumble, though I’m not feeling particularly generous with my praise at this hour.

Back to bed we go. I drift off, only to be awakened again at 2:30 a.m. by panting and a cold nose pressed against my cheek.

The same routine follows, except this time, I stub my toe on the bedside table and have to bite my lip to keep from cursing loudly and waking my neighbors, or worse yet, the raccoons and possums. I decide this time that Winnie Lew might need a peanut butter-covered Pepto-Bismol tablet.

She eagerly eats her “treat” and back to bed we go.

I’ve barely gotten back to sleep by the 3:30 a.m. wake-up call. I’ve given up on proper attire, pajama bottoms be damned, and just go out in my nightshirt.

I don’t even try to find my shoes, just grab a pair of flip-flops by the door. Winnie Lew and I stumble outside like two drunks after last call, her pulling me along with surprising strength for a dog who seemed so miserable moments ago.

“This better be important,” I mutter as she sniffs around and finds the perfect spot—adjacent to the two other perfect spots.

The moon is full tonight, casting everything in a silvery glow that would be beautiful if I weren’t so exhausted. Winnie Lew finally does her business, and I notice with relief that things seem to be firming up. Maybe the Pepto is working.

By 4:30 a.m., I’ve abandoned all pretense of being a functional human being. When the whimpering starts again, I don’t even open my eyes. I just reach out, pat around until I find her furry head, and groan.

“No, Winnie Lew. Please. Have mercy.”

But mercy isn’t in her vocabulary in these early morning hours. She nudges my hand with her wet nose and gives a pitiful little whine that somehow manages to convey both urgency and apology. I crack one eye open to look at the clock: 4:37 a.m.

“You’re killing me, baby girl. You know that, right?”

I don’t bother with the light switch this time. I’ve memorized the obstacle course that is my kitchen through the night’s previous expeditions. The harness goes on by feel alone, my fingers fumbling with the single clasp. This should be simple but now feels like advanced engineering.

Winnie Lew dances impatiently, her nails clicking on the hardwood like impatient Morse code. I shuffle toward the door, my hand trailing along the wall for support.

Outside, the world has that eerie pre-dawn stillness. Not even the birds are awake yet. The air has a damp chill that seeps straight through my thin nightshirt. I stand there, arms wrapped around myself, watching Winnie Lew quickly circle, sniff, and settle on yet another adjacent spot. I have no idea by this time if the desperate squats are successful.

“That’s my girl,” I whisper, with more sincerity this time. I do one last, thorough bottom clean. Her poor tummy.

I make a mental note to call the vet first thing in the morning – the real morning, when the sun is actually up.

When we get back inside, I fill her water bowl and watch her take a few tentative sips. Her eyes meet mine, and I swear there’s gratitude there, mixed with a touch of embarrassment.

She lets me sleep until my alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. I drag myself out of bed and begin my morning routine, this time to go outside for our walk. My ensemble has changed to shorts, a sweatshirt, and my running shoes. Winnie Lew and I head outside.

Her tail is still wagging as we go for a short walk, but I can see that she doesn’t feel well. Once back inside, I get myself ready for work and call the vet at 7:30 a.m. I don’t even bother with any coffee knowing there is no brew strong enough.

The vet says to bring her in at 8:00 a.m.

When Dr. West comes in, Winnie Lew wags her tail as if to say, “Finally, some relief.” Because this has happened before, he looks at her and says “What have you gotten yourself into this time? Have you been back in the cat food again?”

All of a sudden, it occurs to me that, yes, Winnie Lew was eating my neighbor’s cat’s food last time we were at the vet’s. I sheepishly tell the doc, that yes, that may be it.

He politely admonishes me and Winnie Lew, gives her a shot and medicine to take home, and sends us on our way.

When we get back in the car to go home, I look over at Winnie Lew who is already starting to perk up thanks to the miracle shot.

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” I say, reaching over to scratch her ears. She responds with that goofy, tongue-lolling smile that makes it impossible to stay mad at her.

Back home, I call the church to let them know I’ll be late. Again. Due to Winnie Lew’s unauthorized cat food buffet that led to a night of gastrointestinal distress and emergency bathroom breaks.

I tell them I will be there as soon as I can, but I look like I’ve been through war. “Put another pot of coffee on. The strong stuff,” they say.

After hanging up, I glance at Winnie Lew, who’s now curled up on my bed. “Lucky you’re cute, co-pilot.” She wags her tail but doesn’t bother to open her eyes. And with that, my day officially begins.