There is nothing—nothing—I’d rather do than lie supine, immobile, and barely conscious on my couch, feeling gravity pull me deep into the cushions, anchoring me in the worry-free zone of an NFL game. Any team, any stadium—I don’t care. Just let me watch the drama unfold on the green turf, lulled into bliss by the stadium cacophony: the thud of pads colliding, the sharp crack of ramming helmets, the hollering fans cheering on their gridiron deities, and the soothing banter of the broadcasters perched high atop the action.

This is all I want out of life: the here and now, mesmerized by the modern-day gladiators playing regulated war games on my big-screen TV. Why some people would rather witness this event live—among the hysterical, boorish beer swillers—perplexes me. I chill here in utter contentment. What more could a simple fellow like me want?

…Well, maybe a studio with a lake view connected by an underground tunnel to a fully stocked convenience store, and a maid—because someone has to clean while I pretend to be a novelist, a serious one. Sundays are sacred, and for these few hours, I feel otherworldly.

Until it begins.

A shrill, eardrum-shattering sound cuts through the sacred calm, more jarring than a stormy Monday morning alarm. The piercing vibrations slice through my nerves like a cosmic machete, jolting me upright as if I’ve licked a live wire.

“Waaaaaa… waaaAAAAA!”

It’s DJ, my whiskery sidekick, pacing like a tiny dictator. His demands are unmistakable: “Take me out now!”

“Take you out again? For the sixth time today?” I groan. Maybe if I close my eyes and fake sleep, he’ll leave me alone. Falling asleep is my superpower—it’s happened at funerals, weddings, even bachelor parties where I inevitably miss the grand finale I’ll hear about for decades. But DJ isn’t buying it. Another walk around the block always trumps a football-induced nap.

“Waaaaaa… waaaAAAAA! But I gotta go!” he insists, stomping his paws like he’s addressing a mutinous crew.

“Like yesterday, when all you did was sniff that same old patch of grass by the school for ten minutes?” I wave my arms in protest. “That patch must hold the secrets of the universe.”

DJ halts mid-pace and shoots me The Look.

“That’s where I pick up Corky’s messages,” he says, hurt and indignant.

“What messages could a beagle leave? ‘I peed here,’” I guffaw.

“A beagle in heat. Need I say more?” he winks.

“Please don’t,” I groan. “Next time try texting her.”

DJ sighs, exasperated, as if I were explaining calculus to a toddler. “Pee is canine texting, just a lot more efficient—and cheaper. Too bad you’re human. You couldn’t even fathom the info we get from a good pee patch.”

I press my index finger against his wet nose and mutter, “And now please allow me to hit the snooze button.” Gross. I wipe my sticky finger on my stained T-shirt.

“Waaaaaa… waaaAAAAA! Take me out, or else,” the terrier demands.

“Or else what?” I sigh.

DJ lifts his leg.

“Wait—don’t answer that,” I say quickly, remembering the ‘or else’ I stepped in the other night. Not exactly pleasant when you’re running to the kitchen for a midnight snack.

DJ howls with laughter, his tail wagging like he’s just won the canine lottery.

As I drag myself to my feet, I catch a glimpse of the muted TV screen. The game clock ticks down, a metaphorical reminder of time slipping away, like my sacred Sundays. Life’s interruptions, I think, are a lot like DJ’s pee breaks—annoying, inconvenient, and inevitable. But maybe, like the messages left on Corky’s favorite patch, they contain more meaning than I’m willing to admit.

DJ tugs at the leash, impatient for his next adventure. I sigh, defeated, and shuffle toward the door. Sundays may be sacred, but DJ has a religion of his own.