Bailey is a speckled black and white cocker spaniel who is so old now that I can beat him to the popcorn that drops on the floor. It took him 14 years but he has us trained.

Drill begins every morning when the fragrance of Folgers drifts into the bedroom and Tom and I beat feet to the kitchen. I look longingly at the coffeepot but Bailey has other plans. He whines impatiently and paces around the table. I pull sweats on over pj’s, coat over that, hat, gloves and boots with cleats so I don’t break my buttocks on the ice. He dances around my legs grumbling. I hook him up to his leash and we go.

Out on the street Bailey has found a place to lift his leg but he has to be inventive for the major event. After walking in endless circles he scales a snow bank and steadies himself on glazed ice.

Back in the house Tom is ready. “Here ya go, Bails.” He tosses a Pet Tab followed by a Milk Bone covered with a glob of peanut butter with half an aspirin stuck inside. The old boy spins like a puppy on his three good legs to catch each treat, nothing wrong with his eye-to-mouth coordination. Within minutes the bowl that held breakfast is clean and Bailey’s eyes are locked on the banana Tom is slicing over his cereal. The furry one always scores a bite.

Bailey can’t tolerate separation. Wherever we go, that is where he wants to be. If Tom or I are in the bedroom, living room, kitchen or bathroom, he’s at our heels. Tom goes upstairs and Bailey whines at the bottom of the steps he can no longer navigate.

Supper time and Bailey is positioned as close to the stove as he is allowed, beneficial to him and the cook. Total concentration makes him a perfect garbage disposal, catching ends of carrots, pieces of blemished pepper, cucumber or tomatoes. Ears that can’t hear when he is called are perked, lest he miss some tidbit that bounces out of sight.

Eight o’clock: TV time. For Bailey it’s time for the nose nudge: “My ears and back need scratching. My face itches.” His supreme need is telegraphed with his big brown-eyed cocker spaniel look, his lips actually move in a flutter whine like he’s going to spit a lemon seed. “My butt, oh, please, please, scratch my butt, all those out-of-reach places.” He’s fidgety by 9:30 and turns it up a notch. According to his clock, it’s time to go to bed.

At 10, Bailey and Tom go out for the last time, then it’s to the bedroom where the two of them sit on Tom’s side and share Wheat Thins, six apiece — one for you, one for me until they are all gone. Lights out.

We go to bed.

Marlee Hill is a resident of Cape Elizabeth.