Ordinarily I’m not out the door before 8:30 in the morning. Oh, I may be out of bed by 5, or 5:30, but I am far from ready for my closeup.

First, one must shake hands with the governor. Second, attend to Miss Mia Sopaipilla’s litter box. Finally, there shall be strong black coffee, some news, toast with butter and jam, more news, more coffee, some colorful language, a flushing of the headgear via the southern sally port, a light breakfast — oatmeal with fruit and nuts, yogurt with granola, or a fruit smoothie — and p’raps a large mug of strong black tea to wash it all down.

Then, and only then, am I prepared to greet the shit monsoon face to face.

There was a time when I could cut to the chase with drugs and alcohol, but that was many moons ago and 8:30 was out of the question unless I’d stayed up all night, in which case it was more like noon-thirty, and I was only leaving to get more drugs and alcohol.

Or maybe it was 8:30 p.m.

But I digress.

On Tuesday, I was out the door at 7:30 a.m., because it was already warmish and due to become more so. I was kind of tired of cycling — I’d been riding 100-plus miles a week for like five consecutive weeks, which is a lot for me, since I’m not training for anything beyond staying on the sunny side of the sod — so I thought I’d slip out for a quick trail run, maybe lift some weights after.

Turns out 7:30 is the time everyone around here walks the dog.

I’d forgotten about this ritual, since Mister Boo has been absent for six years now and Miss Mia only takes brief, infrequent expeditions into the backyard grass for the folic acid. Dogs gotta walk, winter, spring, summer and fall, and unless you want to fry their furry feet in the dog days of summer, you best get ’em out before the sun comes up and after it goes down.

When you walk a dog you meet other dog walkers. There are no red people or blue people, only dog people. As John Steinbeck observed in “Travels with Charley”:

A dog, particularly an exotic like Charley, is a bond between strangers. Many conversations en route began with ‘What degree of a dog is that?’

Thus I met some degree of a retriever, off leash, whose human advised genially, “It’s OK, she doesn’t bite.” I stifled an “That’s OK, I do,” because the pooch was clearly living the doggie dream.

Likewise a grinning purse dog in the company of a young woman.

“That looks like a very happy dog,” I said. “Oh, she is, she is,” replied her companion.

Dogs mostly don’t wear signifying T-shirts or sport bumper stickers, lacking bumpers and political opinions, and if you’re busy scratching furry ears and cooing, “Who’s a good boy?” you’re not thinking much about what kind of flags their people fly, or how, or where they get their “news.”

You’re probably thinking, “What we need is some degree of a dog.”

Just kidding, Mia. Must’ve had a touch of heat stroke.