Pippin's Perfect Day

Pippin woke at six-fourteen in the morning, which was when the sun came through the kitchen window and made a warm square on the tiles. He had discovered this square two weeks ago and considered it one of his greatest finds. He walked into it, turned twice, and lay down with his chin on his front paws. The square was warm and bright and exactly the right size for a corgi puppy of his particular dimensions.

Breakfast arrived at seven. Pippin ate it so fast that he got hiccups, which surprised him. He stood in the kitchen hiccupping for a moment and looked at Mrs. Clarke, who laughed. He wagged at her and hiccupped again.

By eight o'clock he was in the garden. A leaf blew across the lawn and he chased it for eleven minutes. It was a very good leaf — unpredictable, fast-changing direction, satisfyingly crunchy when caught. He caught it four times and released it. After eleven minutes, the wind took it over the fence and that was the end of that. He sat down and looked at the fence for a while in case it came back.

He napped from nine until half-past. This was an important nap. He was growing, and growing required a great deal of sleep, which he undertook with complete dedication.

After the nap, he explored the garden in depth. He found a interesting smell near the rose bed and investigated it thoroughly. He found something that might have been a worm but turned out not to be. He dug a small, exploratory hole near the fence, considered it, and decided it was complete.

At noon, he found a sock that Mr. Clarke had dropped when bringing in the washing. This was a significant discovery. He carried it around the garden for twenty minutes, trotted through the kitchen, carried it up the hallway, and deposited it at the foot of the stairs with the expression of a dog who has completed an important task.

In the afternoon he sat on the window seat and watched the street. A postman came. Pippin watched him. A cat walked along the garden wall. Pippin watched it with the focused intensity of someone gathering information. Two children cycled past. He tracked them until they were out of sight.

He ate his dinner at five. This time he did not get hiccups, though he was equally enthusiastic.

The evening was warm. Mr. Clarke sat in the garden with a book and Pippin sat beside his chair, pressed against his ankle, looking out at the garden with great seriousness, as if taking stock. A lot had happened today. The leaf. The sock. The nap. The hole. The cat. He felt satisfied with all of it.

At nine o'clock, he came inside for the last time. He turned in three circles on his bed — it was important to do this correctly — and then settled, nose tucked under his tail. He sighed: the deep, unhurried sigh of a dog who has done everything that needed doing, missed nothing, and can now sleep without reservation.

He slept until the sun came back. Then he did it again.