What Do They Think?

On a day like today, I wonder what my dogs think. Well, actually, I'm always wondering what my dogs think, but especially on a day like today.

I had too much to do. I have too much to do tomorrow and Saturday. And I have way, way, way too much to do on Monday and Tuesday. When I get too much to do, I get this buzzy thing that is constantly going off in my brain and my gut, and I feel a drummer in This Is Spinal Tap. Like I'm a potentially hazardous substance and sparks could actually and dangerously start flying out of my various body orifices.

Now I have these nine dogs who are pretty good at providing feedback when I'm acting like a human, or exhibiting other disappointing behavior. As I was running around getting ready to run out and do the too much I had to do today, the dogs gave me hints. I literally was running between the bathroom (turn the shower on) through the bedroom (strip off some jammies) into the computer room (answer two emails) back through the bedroom (down to my nekked self) and back into the bathroom (intending to jump in the shower). Only when I turned the corner of the bathroom doorway (at that literal run) I nearly knocked dear Very Old Dog off his rather shakey feet and into the shower stall. I pulled up at the very last second and scooped him into my arms, to prevent bouncing him under the spray.

He was rather taken aback by the unexpected explosion of his servant, and looked at me askance. "Excuse you?" I heard him say quite clearly.

Very Old Dog has been my shadow for fourteen years, only nowadays he doesn't move so fast, and I was flying madly around like a trapped bumble bee banging against an inside window pane. It's quite possible that he was following me into the bathroom on my first fly by to turn on the shower, and he had just arrived when I flew back around to hop in. I don't know. I know he was most displeased.

I had scooped poop before breakfast. Doing it then is so good for my attempts at dieting: breakfast loses its appeal. And I'm sure the commuters driving by feel better about themselves when they see me out in my red flannel jammies with paw prints and bones, which I won in the Kennel Club's Christmas Auction, at six-thirty in the morning with the pooper scooper walking slowly back and forth over the length and breadth of the yard. Pausing every so often to scoop, and then continuing. I used to wave to the commuters, but they were always too embarrassed for me to wave back. They would pretend they needed to turn away just at that second. I still wave to my neighbors; they know me and wave anyway.

After showering and dressing, I let the dogs out and then tucked them in their crates in the dog room with biscuits. There were looks: Oh, it's one of those days. I could just hear the "Hmmmphs" as they took the proffered treats. "Hmmmmph," times nine.

I ran around not getting enough done until three. "Hooray! You're home! Life is grand and we are glad!" Bill had let them out of their crates at lunch time. It was nice enough that the kitchen door could stay open, and his studio door, and they could go in between the house and the yard and the studio as they pleased. Bill had walked Delia after breakfast, so I did three walks of two, three, and three. Even these were not up to standard, as I was on the cell phone, and that detracts. Walking time is about enjoying life. It's about how is everything in dog land, and isn't it great to be out and about, and aren't we lucky to have each other. Not yack yack yack about ads in the Kennel Club Show catalog, or blah blah blah about the new city ordinance. Walk time is our time.

I got sideways looks from the dogs. They knew I was cheating.

And after the walks I had to put them back away. This is felonious behavior. I had gone way beyond misdemeanor. And, because I was out of dog food, I had to put them back away without having fed them. I swear, dear readers, I swear I heard clear as a bell three of them say, "Well, the nerve! The very nerve!" I gave them each two biscuits, trying to buy my way out of trouble.

When I returned from the post office, and the dog food store, and the office supplies store, and other boring places, it was with some trepidation. I took comfort in the forty pound bag of Iams around which my arms were wrapped. I used it like a shield. But I was off the hook. Bill was cooking Italian sausage and mushrooms and onions, The smell of which could make any dog forgive any sin. Our good friends Harvey and Jeanie were over for dinner, and they had been away for a while and the dogs were so happy to have them back. Each dog greeted me like I hadn't broken all the rules all day, and they ate their dinners without a grudge. Then they settled in to wait for the Italian sausage plate lickins and to enjoy our laughter with good friends.


But they all fell asleep a little too quickly tonight. They were pooped. And I wonder. When I'm being so stressed and so unsatisfactorily human, what do my nine little consciences think?





hug your hounds