I often save notes for myself in my email draft folder. The problem is, I forget to go back and read the note I’d written to remind myself of the thing that’s now two months overdue. Today I found a blog I’d written with my thumbs, on my phone, back in February while the dogs were eating breakfast…

Not to be outdone with senior feats of strength, Brick got me up at 12:30 a.m. Since the vet added psyllium to his diet, I don’t even ask anymore—I just stagger to the door and let him out. While he’s doing his thing, I usually have just enough time to sneak Maybe three bits of cheese. (Brick has no gallbladder. He can’t have cheese.)

When Maybe sat politely, mouth agape and ready to accept bit number five, it hit me that Brick had exceeded his usual return time. I stuck my head out, expecting to see him eating grass, but instead saw his body—with no head— front paws flailing.

I don’t function well for the first hour or so after getting out of bed, even less so in the middle of the night. I returned to the bedroom for shoes, grabbed a flashlight, and headed outside to search for Brick’s head.

For better or worse, I only got two steps onto the patio before Brick greeted me with a freshly dispatched gopher hanging limply from his mouth. I praised him, promised him candy, then asked him to drop his trophy and go back to bed.

Knowing Brick would worry the gopher might push its brain back into its head and scamper off—or worse, become a vengeful zombie—and insist on multiple double-checks, I left boyfriend a note.

Brick did try to convince me to open the door several more times, but I thought I’d finally won against the vicious nose boops on my arm when I loudly announced, “Sleep time or crate time!”

He crumpled into a disgusted heap with a chuff of contempt.

But no. After my snores of slumber returned, he tiptoed down the hall to a blissfully unaware boyfriend and urgently pawed at his arm. Ever the hero, boyfriend got up and, not seeing my note, let Brick out.

When I got up in the morning, I found Brick with his nose pressed against the slider, fired up and ready to go. The gopher was not where I’d last seen it—but at least it was still outside.

I opened the door and watched as he raced out to kill that dead gopher. Again.

If nothing else, he is thorough.