Come on, now! You've had sleep enough.
You've been sleepin' as long as I have." Jennie would be watching him out of the corner of one loving eye, her tail tap-tapping on the bed, her free ear going up and down.
When he was fully dressed, his face and hands washed, his old string tie pulled around into a loose and convenient knot, his hair brushed upward, Jennie would get up and jump demonstratively about, as much as to say, "You see how prompt I am." "That's the way," old Laughlin would comment.

"Allers last.

Yuh never git up first, do yuh, Jinnie?
Allers let yer old man do that, don't you ?" On bitter days, when the car-wheels squeaked and one's ears and fingers seemed to be in danger of freezing, old Laughlin, arrayed in a heavy, dusty greatcoat of ancient vintage and a square hat, would carry Jennie down-town in a greenish-black bag along with some of his beloved "sheers" which he was meditating on.

Only then could he take Jennie in the cars.

On other days they would walk, for he liked exercise.