George

February 15, 2010
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I have always had an affinity for large male dogs. Though at an early age I was rendered unable to have offspring, I maintained throughout my life a strong  attraction to members of the opposite gender. I had high standards and still do. The gentleman dog of my choosing must be strongly built, larger than I, and of course must be from long haired parentage. I could never tolerate any dog whose private parts were visible to the world. My goodness, that’s what fur is for.

My first paramour was a Golden Retriever named George. He had all sorts of pedigrees and papers, which didn’t matter a whit to me. I loved him for his strength, his manliness, and the joy he brought me. George was regal in his bearing. His head was square and chiseled,  and he held it aloft with such pride. His color was a deep orange, which set him apart from the lesser blondes of his breed. Oh, it didn’t hurt that I could boss him around and have my way with him. George was quick to assert his dominance over others, but not me.
I was perhaps two when we met. He belonged to a lovely woman who lived across the street. We used to go to the park together. That was long before there were off leash areas. We would run and bump, sniff and pee, and occasionally sound off at questionable characters in the park. Our women held long thoughtful conversations as we romped. They talked about their hopes and fears, death of loved ones, what the future might hold. When we finished our walk we were put into our cars and driven to a coffee shop, where their conversation resumed.

George and I loved our walks in the park, but we also realized that it was  important to our people. Our silliness encouraged their conversation. They more easily shared matters of the heart in our presence. How curious. George and I were completely dependent upon them to drive us to the park and monitor our behavior. Yet they were dependent upon us for something neither we nor they could quite articulate.

I haven’t thought of George in many years. He was older than I and long ago crossed the rainbow bridge. It made me sad our days together were cut short when he moved to another town. I would have mourned him more deeply but for my true love, Dasso. I will tell more of Dasso, but his importance to me requires my full attention and I grow tired with the effort of writing. I must lay my head on the beautiful soft rug she bought for me. Perhaps a sip of water before I struggle to lie down. My legs pain me greatly when I change positions. A nap will help restore my energy. While I sleep she will rub my ears and whisper that she loves me. Sometimes I awake with her hands gently rubbing my neck. I will write more tomorrow.

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