Mr. C,

Last night, I blew the two-minute drill—
     Steelers lost a 33–31 heartbreaker,
     then back to Sylvan for quiet talk,
                           light kisses,
                             low lights…

     then somewhere between “one more minute”
     and “set the alarm,”

     we fell through the clock.

Six a.m.—your mom bolt-awake,
    me scrambling a Lyft,
    you waiting at home like a professional

    who deserved better timing.

I’m sorry, Sir.

Your schedule is a sacred thing—
   walks when the day says walk,
        bowls filled on the dot,
  the whole world clicking true.

I let a dot slip. (That one’s on me.)

Today turned blur—code and calls—
      and I won’t see you or Mom’s smile in person.

You’ll run Couch Command with Mom,
          keep the perimeter soft,
             set the room to Calm.
           (I feel it from Irby’s.)

The screens will shout tonight—
    Mariners holding off the tide,
    Dodgers trying to sweep with Ohtani dealing.

I’ll watch, but I’ll also keep
     a corner of the night for you—
     where the air is just right,
     your bed stakes your spot,

     and everything already smells of you.

Here’s the make-good list,
       stamped and signed:

       • that extra-long green-space patrol (squirrel audit included)
       • porch-bed time at Irby’s (head scritches from your fan club)
       • deep massages until your blink says “enough” (it never does)
       • and yes—the **burger mission** (unseasoned, vet-approved ✅)

       to balance yesterday’s miss.

Tomorrow’s gonna be my birthday finale,
        Helium then Irby’s after-party,
    plans that might zig like plans do—

 but I’ll carry your name in my pocket
                      like a spare key.

If the night runs late,
   I’ll set alarms for *you* first.

Sorry, Mr. C.

Thank you for how you forgive—
      the way your tail doesn’t hold grudges,
      the way your sigh says “reset accepted.”

I’ll do better with the dots.
I’ll be truer to the clock you trust.

For now, curl easy.
Snuggle Mom tight.

Tell the house I said
           “good boy,”
         “good guard,”
         “good heart.”

I’ll see you soon, Coal—
     and we’ll walk that perimeter

     right on time.