In the woods behind the house, that morning, the snow sparkled like sugar on a cake. Thor sank his paws into it with a soft thump, and every time he thought the same thing: ah, what a perfect way to start the day.
He didn’t say it out loud, of course—dogs don’t really talk. But those who knew him well swore that when Thor was happy, the forest understood.
Thor was tall and imposing, a Cane Corso with the air of an ancient guardian… even though the grandpa teased him by calling him “Mick Jagger,” thanks to his habit of strutting like a rock star stepping onto the stage. Thor pretended not to hear, but inside he thought: it’s not my fault if I walk with style.
Watching him run between the fir trees, someone might have thought, “Here comes the fierce mastiff!”
But inside, Thor simply sighed: if only they knew I get emotional over a cookie…
His mornings always followed the same routine—more precise than a mountain cuckoo clock. After greeting the snow, Thor shook off everything—flakes, sleep, and little thoughts—and began his inspection tour.
First stop was always the grandpa. Thor reached the door with a determined step and, if the grandpa took even one minute too long, his favorite wake-up call arrived: a long, enthusiastic lick. The grandpa must wake up first; otherwise the whole day starts crooked.
Then Thor climbed the stairs, where the smell of breakfast floated like a promise. The dad pretended every day to be surprised:
“Well, look who’s here!”
Thor, serious and composed, thought: Dad, I come here every morning… but thank you.
The third stop was the mom. She had that warm smile that seemed to melt even the snow. As soon as she saw him appear, she always said:
“Good morning, knight.”
And Thor, proud as a prince, walked forward as if he truly wore a heroic cape. Mom has this effect: she makes me feel important.
Only when everyone was awake, greeted, and in their proper place did Thor allow himself breakfast. A simple moment, but for him it felt like returning to the center of the world: his bowl, his humans, the house, and the forest waiting outside.
And indeed, as soon as he finished, he ran back into the snow. His footprints—big, funny, unmistakable—remained on the path like little stamps of happiness.
The forest, which knew well the secrets of animals, seemed to whisper among the branches:
“It’s Thor. He doesn’t just wake up the house. He wakes the day.”
And perhaps it was true. Because some dogs don’t simply live beside us.
They remind us, every morning, that the world is a kinder place when someone comes looking for you.