Alone With the Dogs

Delia looking for Her Bill

Bill is going to his umptieth high school reunion. He is driving the fifteen hours to go "home" to the small town in South Jersey where he grew up. To reconnect. He is taking a week to visit daughters and grandchildren and cousins and friends in nearby Maryland and Pennsylvania while he's there.

I can't go. I am feeling plenty o'pity for my sorry little self, but there it is.

I just haven't found anyone here whom I would feel comfortable with leaving my nine dogs. Heck, with the absurd number of squirrels populating the sidewalks this autumn, I am not comfortable managing my nine dogs these days. And it's not just the squirrels. It's the steep twisting slippery staircase and the Very Old Dog. It's ancient Maria's delicate tummy. It's the canine "best buddy" status which can so quickly devolve into "get out of my space dog fight" status under times of stress. It's my not being willing to ask anyone to poop scoop after nine dogs, especially if they would be here long enough to have to empty the poop buckets. And I'm watching a dear friend's two dogs this weekend, so we'll actually be eleven.

When we lived at the farm, it was a different story. There were college kids who had grown up on farms who jumped at the opportunity to stay at our house while Bill and I travelled. They took care of the horses and the dogs. It helped that we had about two fenced acres for the dogs, accessible by opening the living room door. And there were no stairs from hell. And no one had to scoop. And, to be fair, none of the dogs were so geriatric and fragile.

So. It's me and the dogs. Of course there are some fun things when Bill's away. I can have cereal every night for dinner! Um. And... Um. Oh, and some sweet friends invited me out one night, to which I am really looking forward. And... Um... OK, so that's all that is fun about when Bill is away. I actually hate it. His poor Delia dog is beyond distraught. I've already had to let her in the studio to show her he's not in there twice and it's only ten-thirty and he didn't leave until eight-thirty and then I walked everyone. And she's on my lap now as I type. (I am a poor substitute for Her Bill, but I'm all there is.)

Getting the dogs out in the morning will be a good aerobic exercise for me. The normal routine is

• Bill goes down and makes coffee and writes in his journal


• I carry Very Old Dog down, along with fragile Maria, and Fat Charlie and Mama Pajama


• Bill opens the kitchen door for them and makes sure Very Old Dog doesn't come back upstairs to find me


• I go back upstairs and let bossy Delia and Luciano out, following them to the top of the stairs to make sure they go down and don't wait in ambush for the clueless youngsters. Bill calls them from the kitchen and shews them out.


• I go back to the bedroom and let Sam I Am and the yearlings, Swede William and Lindy Loo out and go downstairs with them.


• I pick up poop while the dogs hang with Bill.


• I feed the dogs their breakfast.


• Bill and I have coffee and discuss the news in the paper and the state of Our World.


• Bill walks Delia and Luciano while I eat.


• Bill eats while I walk the rest in twos.

We are a well-oiled machine. You can see how that machine gets its gears grinding wrong when a part goes all missing.

But we'll make do. We'll do great. And we'll all do happy dances when Our Bill gets home. And we'll tell him we were fine and we didn't miss him a bit. And then we'll tell him that was a big lie and we're so much better when we can hug him.