By Robert Perea
There’s a clock on top of the bookshelf in the corner of my office.
On production days, or whenever I have somewhere to be at a specific time, I look at it frequently to gauge my progress in relation to my deadline or my readiness.
Other days, I rarely look at it at all.
On deadline days, time is a taskmaster. I watch the clock like a scoreboard, measuring my progress. When I’m behind, each tick is a reminder to write faster, think sharper. On those rare occasions when I’m ahead, I hear my old basketball coach in the back of my head: “Keep the pedal down, don’t let them back in the game.”
Other days, the clock fades entirely into the background. On those days, time isn’t measured in minutes, seconds or hours. It’s measured by Harry.
Harry is 16 years old now, soon to be 17, a pit bull-Boston terrier mix with a grayed muzzle and a cautious gait. He doesn’t bound anymore, he arrives. Slowly, deliberately, sometimes unsteadily.
He used to circle before lying down, making sure things were just right. Now he just sort of eases himself down wherever he stops.
Whenever I’m working at home and not on deadline, I measure time not by productivity, but by his presence. Not by minutes, but by moments. The way he acts when he needs to go out, when he knows it’s time to eat, when he knows I’m getting ready to leave.
Harry was born the same month my dad died and his life has coincided with some of the highest highs and lowest lows of my life. I got him and his brother when they were six weeks old. Harry was the runt of a litter of three male puppies, but turned out to be the alpha.
Gilmore died about two and a half years ago after going through what I can only describe as a canine form of dementia, so I watch Harry closely for similar symptoms. Sometimes I catch him staring into space and I wonder if he’s simply resting or if he’s somewhere else entirely. There’s a softness to him now, a quiet that was never there before.
But not every day moves like Harry does. The frantic weekly news cycle leaves me rushing to get to a meeting or event, hurrying to get things written. On those days, time is loud, restless and impatient. On those days, it’s the clock that matters.
As I write this, Harry is asleep in his favorite spot on the floor behind me. The clock in the corner says deadline is only a few minutes away, but he doesn’t care about that.
I finish the last sentence, save the file, and lean back in my chair. The clock says I made it. But Harry’s snore reminds me I was already here.
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