I rarely set my alarm clock.

If I notice a little morning light streaming into my bedroom and am able to make out the glowing red digits on my clock radio (a dependable GE number, ready, no doubt, for the small appliance museum), and I can see that it’s after 6:00, I decide I’m ready for the day.

Now that I have a dog, it’s like having a truth machine (a better term than a lie detector). If I stir even the slightest bit underneath my cool white sheets, the jig is up. India knows I’m awake. There’s no use pretending otherwise.

She’ll put her paws up on the side of my bed as I brush the wispy dreamtime strands of hair out of my face. She’ll look at me with soft, loving deep space dark eyes as she balances on her hind legs and tries to position her head under my outstretched hand.

She doesn’t bark. She just bounces around the side of my bed with great excitement. Taking long naps during the day as she does, she’s probably been awake already for some time, just waiting for this moment — when she can detect that I’m awake, too.

“Come on. Come on. Let’s go,” she seems to be telling me. “The day has started. Let’s go see what’s happening?”

I stumble to find a pair of shorts and a tee to put on (deciding the one I wore yesterday will do). I fill my pockets with my over-sized ring of keys and a few plastic bags, poop bags that I’ve either been gifted (I have people saving NY Times delivery sleeves for me) or pilfered from a re-cycling bin at a local grocery store.

India puts up a bit of a fuss while I get her little pink harness on then quickly forgets her discomfort as she leads me to the door so we could start our morning walk.

She might not pee for ten minutes. She’s quick to the door not out of a sense of urgency. It’s more like she’s bursting with the expectation of adventure; a simple sort of joy.

I like to mix up our routes. The train might still cross our path, but it doesn’t run as frequently as it does during prime commuting time. We’ll come across an occasional jogger, an over-achieving backpack burdened teen, or other dogs and their people on leashes, but, for the most part, the neighborhood is still quiet.

I love the stillness of the morning.

It’s still cool from the night. Birds and insects are talking to each other. I don’t try to figure anything out. My mind doesn’t run through what it thinks it might get called upon to do during the day.

I only have to make a decision when we reach a corner (Should we turn or cross the street?). I hold on tightly to the leash in case India becomes aware of a chase-able object like a squirrel long before I notice one around, but I don’t fret about anything.

I watch her for cues, whether she wants to pee or sniff something interesting. I’m always prepared to fish something out of her mouth, something she’s found like abandoned pistachio shells, but it’s all part of the adventure. What will we find on our path today?

I love the sounds within the soundlessness of the morning. It’s too early for honking car horns or overhearing cell phone conversations I’d rather not listen to but might be exposed to later in the day.

I’d like to think poetically about walking to my heartbeat, but that’s not exactly the truth.

I hear the sounds of my sandaled feet scuffling along the sidewalk. My footsteps always sound heavy to my ears.

Then I’ll tune into the sound of my furry and fiercely curious companion as her nails, lightly clicking against the sidewalk, announce her movements.

Whether I’m looking at the openness of Wilson Avenue, oddly without cars, or am merely grateful I can cross the tracks without having to wait for a train to pass, I love these moments of morning stillness.

I love looking at India who has already traveled these sidewalks many times and doesn’t seem to grow tired of the walk. I love seeing her face full of curiosity and enthusiasm; full of surprise.

Everything she comes across seems to surprise and delight her. Our lives are full.

Appreciating that moments of morning stillness are full of possibilities, like an orchestra conductor raising his baton before the first note, is no small thing.