It was a rainy December afternoon and Finnegan was feeling itchy. She watched him rolling about on the carpet trying to scratch his back before she sat down on the floor next to him. She was holding something pink in her hand.
"Hold still," she whispered.
He did, but the look in his eyes was wary. He hated being brushed. Inevitably his hair got pulled and it sent painful tingles along the sensitive nerves in his back and down his sore hips. But as she began running the pink rubbery brush up and down his back in gentle circles, he could not contain his squirms of delight. My goodness this felt so goooooooood!
"Ohmygodohmygoohmygod!" He whined happily. "What is that? Don't stop!"
She laughed. "It's called a Zoom Groom. Kong makes it. Isn't it wonderful? It's the best dog brush I have ever found! Look at all this fur it's picking up from just your back! I could knit an entire sweater with this! It's getting rid of your shedding and you won't feel so itchy when you try to sleep tonight."
She flicked large clumps of black fur into the wastebasket and then went back to her circular scrubbing. Finnegan's tongue kept flicking out as he wiggled in joy beneath her ministrations. His hip dysplasia usually made any type of grooming somewhat painful, but this brush was made of a pliant rubber and the prongs did not snag or pull in his thick coat. And they scratched his itches in all the right places! Oh happy Corgi day! He loved the Zoom Groom.
"I hope it rains all day, Human Woman, all day!"
Monday, December 17, 2012
Friday, December 14, 2012
Typing a Life into Existence.
Rebuilding a life when you are halfway through it takes time. But when one is racing against the countdown of Life's Clock, time is the one thing that seems to be in short supply.
Finnegan lay on his bed, nose resting atop his paws, and considered the sight of his human at her computer. She typed as if her life depended upon it. She typed as if trying to corral every good idea in the universe onto a single page of paper. It would be a list of viable ideas, that she could print off and carry about in her back pocket to pull out and review on days when the panic of losing all hope began to take over.
He wanted to tell her that she was doing an amazing job. But he knew she would not believe him. Not yet. He wanted to thank her for keeping his food dish full, his water dish sparkling clean, for walking him 3 times a day and giving him belly rubs. But he knew she would shush him and tell him that was love and love takes no effort. It's as innate as breathing.
This very human business of rebuilding a life from the scrap heap of her previous one would be the miracle to end all miracles once she had managed it. She had explained that it was now about "earning a living" by doing what she loved. It was also about the practicalities of keeping a roof over their heads and being able to feel safe on cold winter nights. And she said something else that made him pay attention. She said it was about rebuilding to a point where she could then give back to someone else. And to someone else's dog, too. That made him wag his stubby tail.
He wondered about a life that did not rely upon "earning a living", as she called it. What would a life without money entail? Would it be difficult to live off the land like a wolf? He could drink river water and roll in smelly stuff all day long. He could run with a pack of friends. Together they could sit and soak up long, lazy rays of the sun on summer afternoons and howl at the full moon on winter nights. He could hunt wild rabbits; And eat them if they would stand still long enough to be pounced upon. Hmmm. But he would not have his big, plush bed with its fleecy blanket. And frosty mornings might not be pleasant with his bad hips and no Human Woman to fuss over him and make him comfy. And of course, there would be a serious lack of Pupperoni. He did not think that wolves got to eat Pupperoni or peanut butter biscuits or yam and eggs. And they certainly did not get hugs. Oh. He would miss hugs almost as much as little treats!
"Keep typing, Human Woman, keep typing. We need to buy some Pupperoni!" He whispered.
She did not turn, she did not speak, but the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. She continued typing their life into existence.
Finnegan lay on his bed, nose resting atop his paws, and considered the sight of his human at her computer. She typed as if her life depended upon it. She typed as if trying to corral every good idea in the universe onto a single page of paper. It would be a list of viable ideas, that she could print off and carry about in her back pocket to pull out and review on days when the panic of losing all hope began to take over.
He wanted to tell her that she was doing an amazing job. But he knew she would not believe him. Not yet. He wanted to thank her for keeping his food dish full, his water dish sparkling clean, for walking him 3 times a day and giving him belly rubs. But he knew she would shush him and tell him that was love and love takes no effort. It's as innate as breathing.
This very human business of rebuilding a life from the scrap heap of her previous one would be the miracle to end all miracles once she had managed it. She had explained that it was now about "earning a living" by doing what she loved. It was also about the practicalities of keeping a roof over their heads and being able to feel safe on cold winter nights. And she said something else that made him pay attention. She said it was about rebuilding to a point where she could then give back to someone else. And to someone else's dog, too. That made him wag his stubby tail.
He wondered about a life that did not rely upon "earning a living", as she called it. What would a life without money entail? Would it be difficult to live off the land like a wolf? He could drink river water and roll in smelly stuff all day long. He could run with a pack of friends. Together they could sit and soak up long, lazy rays of the sun on summer afternoons and howl at the full moon on winter nights. He could hunt wild rabbits; And eat them if they would stand still long enough to be pounced upon. Hmmm. But he would not have his big, plush bed with its fleecy blanket. And frosty mornings might not be pleasant with his bad hips and no Human Woman to fuss over him and make him comfy. And of course, there would be a serious lack of Pupperoni. He did not think that wolves got to eat Pupperoni or peanut butter biscuits or yam and eggs. And they certainly did not get hugs. Oh. He would miss hugs almost as much as little treats!
"Keep typing, Human Woman, keep typing. We need to buy some Pupperoni!" He whispered.
She did not turn, she did not speak, but the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. She continued typing their life into existence.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
All I want for Christmas.
Dearest Santyclaws,
All I want for Christmas is bacon. I do not want bacon-flavored chew toys. I do not want bacon-scented snacks. I do not want bacon-scented sweaters. I do not want a bacon-scented plush bed. I do not want bacon look-a-like tofu dog biscuits.
I just want real bacon. A year's supply. Thank you.
And maybe rethink my offer to ride herd on those 8 tiny reindeer of yours during the rest of the year. I'm out of a job and they've got a bit of attitude. Especially the guy with the red nose. And, frankly, they're all getting kind of chubby. Let me chase them around the pasture for an hour! All that exercise will increase their flying times!
Could you ask the elves to get more creative with pet presents this year? The neighbor's cat has asked if catnip could be put in something more interesting than a felt mouse. Maybe a felt possum or rope chicken. Something that she could really get into batting around the kitchen floor. (Personally, I think she has anger issues.)
But let's get back to the bacon. That's very, very important, Santyclaws. Please don't forget the bacon. And bring some for my buddy Sammy, too. He hasn't been naughty at all this year. He hasn't even contemperlated (sp?) being naughty. I was only naughty that one time I tried to eat the UPS man but I didn't get him so that doesn't actually count, does it? (Mommy does not think it counts.)
I will believe in your forever and ever if you bring the bacon!
Your most adorablest and favoritest Corgi in the entire world,
Finnegan James.
All I want for Christmas is bacon. I do not want bacon-flavored chew toys. I do not want bacon-scented snacks. I do not want bacon-scented sweaters. I do not want a bacon-scented plush bed. I do not want bacon look-a-like tofu dog biscuits.
I just want real bacon. A year's supply. Thank you.
And maybe rethink my offer to ride herd on those 8 tiny reindeer of yours during the rest of the year. I'm out of a job and they've got a bit of attitude. Especially the guy with the red nose. And, frankly, they're all getting kind of chubby. Let me chase them around the pasture for an hour! All that exercise will increase their flying times!
Could you ask the elves to get more creative with pet presents this year? The neighbor's cat has asked if catnip could be put in something more interesting than a felt mouse. Maybe a felt possum or rope chicken. Something that she could really get into batting around the kitchen floor. (Personally, I think she has anger issues.)
But let's get back to the bacon. That's very, very important, Santyclaws. Please don't forget the bacon. And bring some for my buddy Sammy, too. He hasn't been naughty at all this year. He hasn't even contemperlated (sp?) being naughty. I was only naughty that one time I tried to eat the UPS man but I didn't get him so that doesn't actually count, does it? (Mommy does not think it counts.)
I will believe in your forever and ever if you bring the bacon!
Your most adorablest and favoritest Corgi in the entire world,
Finnegan James.
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