Some people meditate in the mornings.
Some people journal.
Some people sit with their matcha contemplating the fate of the universe or whether today is the day they actually fold the laundry.

Me?
I step into my kitchen and immediately begin a one-woman slam-poetry festival directed at my dogs.
They did not ask for it.
They do not applaud.
But they do stare at me like I might start levitating.

My opener is always the same.
I clear my throat like I’m about to recite Shakespeare on the Lower East Side:

“Hey you, I love you.”

Simple. Direct. Start strong, I say.
Then I escalate:

“You are so beautiful, I could eat you with paprika.”

If you haven’t threatened to lovingly season your dog like a tapas plate, are you even a dog parent?

Then I pivot, because every good set requires range:
“Hey you, you’re Godzilla. You’re such a big boy.”

He’s 62 pounds of fur and delusion, but we support imagination in this household.

And finally, I deliver my pièce de résistance:
“Hey you, you curmudgeon, but you’re really a marshmallow.”
A line best delivered with the gravitas of a moody French poet sipping absinthe and judging humanity.

The dogs, for their part, respond exactly as expected:

One gives me the side eye that says, “Really, I was just trying to nap.”
One looks at me with confusion, as though wondering if I’m having an existential crisis brought on by too much caffeine.
And one looks sleepy, because apparently my slam-poetry has the same effect as melatonin.

Which dog did what?
Ahhh, that’s the mystery.
The psychological Rorschach.
The personality quiz BuzzFeed never dared to make.

But honestly?
This (this absurd), ridiculous, paprika-infused morning ritual is exactly why we have dogs. Right?!
They let us be weird.
They let us be tender.
They let us be our full chaotic selves without calling a therapist on our behalf.

And in return, we give them food, belly rubs, and the occasional Godzilla monologue.

Some households have routines.
Mine has poetry.