She's a Nomad

Last night I walked into my bedroom to find my white boxer licking the wall. I can’t say why she was licking the wall, and by the look on her face when she noticed I'd entered, she didn’t know either. This is the same dog that, at times, licks my elbow for no apparent reason.

My son routinely points out the work involved in owning pets, and I can’t argue. My dogs are continually standing in the way. They’re unable to drink from their water bowl without soaking the floor like a leaky faucet. And nothing can describe the irritating and unexpected pain felt when a bare foot steps forcefully onto a piece of hard kibble left on the kitchen floor. But I love my dogs, and from what I can tell – they love me.

Both dogs have tried hard to adapt to my routine and I've tried hard to adapt to theirs. The cat, as I have mentioned previously, doesn’t know the meaning of the word adapt. And if she does, she must feel it’s an unnecessary use of her valuable energy. Therefore, we all adapt to her.

These quirks; these little nuances requiring our getting use to, are often the very things that cause us to cherish our pets all the more. Such as, upon making my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, or first thing in the morning, I have to do so with eyes glued to the floor, in search of the white boxer that has for reasons I cannot imagine, migrated during the night. Rarely is my boxer in the same place I left her when the lights went out the night before. She starts her night curled next to the Irish setter, well out of the way and removed from any foot traffic areas. Midway through the night she has moved her bed and plunked herself directly in the narrow pathway that leads to the bathroom. By morning, she is in a new location altogether.

My setter, on the other hand, sleeps soundly all night. Unless, that is, when nature requires him to resurrect the sock he consumed earlier in the day. In those instances, I am forced awake by the low, repetitive noises that precede the resurrection – noises I know well - sounds that drift into my sleeping mind and remarkably have the ability to shoot me from my bed like a rocket. And fueled by these noises (that are now increasing in frequency and volume), cause me to swiftly open every door that allows both dog and me closer to the outside world, all done while only half awake.

This is the same dog that greets everyone with a shoe held loosely in his mouth. I’m pretty certain if a burglar were to break in, my setter would drop his nose low to the ground in search of a misplaced flip flop to give as a gift. Often these flip flops travel outside, their vehicle being my setter’s mouth. My lawn is sprinkled with rogue flip flops and unpaired shoes. The final leg of their journey is not a kind one however. If not gathered by me beforehand, I run them over unexpectedly with the lawn mower. Needless to say, the closet inside my home, is refuge to many shoes that are now widowed. Slippers aren’t safe either. Last spring we found one of mine, slightly gnawed, on the side of the pavement two miles down the road. Our only conclusion being that the poor slipper was snatched from our lawn by a passing coyote.

But I have my quirks too, and neither of my dogs (nor the cat), seem to mind. I can safely say that dogs will always be a major part of my life.  They always have been and they always will be. I question those who say they don’t care for dogs. I don’t just question them, I look at them dubiously. I remember when the first editor I hired reviewed my novel. She said she felt the dog needed to be removed from the story. Due to that comment, among others, I removed her from my life. This is a good time to mention -  my new editor hasn’t mentioned the dog, he is after all, a dog owner too.

Sane