It’s been another one of those kind of weeks. Entirely my fault, since I made the foolish comment things couldn’t get any worse than last week for infringing on my writing time. The humility gods snickered and said, “Oh, yeah?”
I’ve spent so much time away from home the puppy is suffering separation anxiety. If he even thinks we’re getting ready to leave, he’ll grab one of my socks I’m trying to put on and run with it. We’ve had a couple close calls when he accidentally nabbed the one I was wearing. Had to make the snap decision as to whether I should throw my arms out for balance and ‘ski’ down the hall behind him on the other foot, or hop a few times and lunge for a handhold on a door casing in passing. Yesterday it was so bad we had a full-scale tug-of-war with the pair of jeans I’d gotten from the dryer. Thought since I was wearing my tennis shoes I could get enough rubber-soled grip on the floor to win. Hubby poked his head out the bathroom door, curious I guess over source of the high-pitched rhythmic “Squeegie-squeegie-squeegie-squeegie” noise making its way down the hall. Couldn’t even wave as I was tugged past him, jerking along like a badly operated marionette. Didn’t dare turn loose long enough. And I’m sure glad the dog had such a determined grip. I was leaned so far back for leverage, if he’d let go, my stern would have busted a dent in the floor for sure.
Of four possible pairs of casual neutral-toned shoes, I found one that matched. Guess I have to keep hunting until I find out where he’s hiding the other ones, because he’s left no evidence of having chewed them. I am relieved, though, all my dress shoes are boxed in the top of the closet. I love my hooker-shoes beyond rational understanding, and he just might get rapped on the head with a stiletto for messing with them. And I just realized I should have let him win the blue jean war. He’d probably have dragged me to the Secret Stash Site and I’d have found my missing shoes.
Returning home is no picnic either. Once the exuberance of his greeting has calmed, it’s as if I have a 58 pound (weighed him) tiger-striped extra appendage. I move from the living room to the kitchen, I trip over him. I carry clothes to the laundry, he’s pressed against my leg. He has to be touching me. Hard. As in, walking the length of the hall holds inherent danger. He’s not satisfied with just the occasional press of his nose. Let’s see. How can it best be described? Ha! I’ve got it! Ever tried to walk with the equivalent of a twelve pound bowling ball unexpectedly shoved between your knees? Cochise has a really big head.
Sitting for more than five minutes isn’t a good idea either. He interprets it as an invitation to demonstrate his skill as a lap dog. Cuddle and tongue. And don’t think about moving from the love seat to the sofa. He goes boneless atop you and he’s like trying to move a sack of wet sand.
But he’s good with the grandkids, sitting beside them for hours as they fish in the pond. Sneaks into bed with them, too, keeping them company until they fall asleep. He comes into my room once they do, and for the life of me I can’t figure out how the clumsy galoot manages to clamber onto my bed without waking me. But every morning he’s stretched out over my feet. And for all his size and clumsiness, his first stop out the door is to check on each and every one of the six three-week-old puppies. He cleans their faces as they climb all over him.
I guess when I consider all the love and devotion he supplies, his quirks aren’t all that bad. He’ll lie beside me for hours on end during the night while I write. And if I get stuck, he’s got the silkiest ears to rub while I think. Science has proven petting an animal can reduce anxiety, even measurably lower blood pressure.
I found the blood pressure info particularly comforting. It’s like a built-in check valve . . . Because having to fight for your clothes can sure push it up.