BarkingProse

I awoke stiff and somewhat disoriented. She carefully cushioned my leap off the end of the bed. More than once she had seen my old legs give way as I collapsed awkwardly onto the carpet. I am motivated to leave the bed only for my breakfast. The one requirement She exacts is that I attend to my toilet before eating. That I gladly do for the pleasure of the home cooked gruel She makes for me.

Other companion animals have told me their people do not cook for them. How very strange. She derives great joy from preparing my meals. Once, when my food bucket was empty, she cooked me fresh oatmeal with apples and cottage cheese. It was delightful, though the quantity was lacking.

As you know, my father was large for his breed and struggled with obesity most of his life. I inherited the joys of fine dining from my father. I was only five weeks old when I devoured a poinsettia plant at my birth home. I don’t remember the details, but I was told my trip to the vet and the medicine to toss my stomach contents was quite expensive.

At my birth home I soon learned about horse muffins. We young ones would wait with excitement as the horse lifted its tail. What magnificent droppings those horses left us. We would run to see who could grab the first one. Fortunately there were always plenty to share. Why humans find this objectionable, I do not know. Fresh and warm from the horse, there is not a better treat for a canine.

For years I enjoyed eating to excess. I lived to eat. I would gobble up anything that looked remotely like food. In my zeal to consume, I occasionally swallowed something that was not quite food. It was half way down my throat before I realized I did not care for orange peel. She tried everything to keep my weight under control, but despite her best efforts I quickly blossomed to 73 pounds. I remember the mocking voice of my first vet, “My, my we like our food…”

I was put on a prescription diet food made principally of peanut shells. Even that was pleasantly edible and I maintained my proportions. I was deprived of treats except on rare occasions. She read all she could about commercial dog food and finally decided I would not lose weight unless she cooked for me. And so began her lifelong commitment to making my food.

Ground turkey, brown rice, vegetables and fruit, nutritional supplements and anything else she could think of went into my homemade gruel. Laughingly referred to as my slop or my bucket, friends marveled at the delights she prepared for me. Leftovers from the finest restaurants, scraps of steak, Caesar salad, all went into my bucket. I loved every bite of it even as I gradually faded to a mere 55 pounds, deemed my perfect weight by her beloved Dr. Sweetness.

I will write more of Dr. Sweetness another time. His skills saved my life on more than one occasion. But all this talk of food has made me hungry. I must see if some crumbs fell from the table last night.  Or perhaps someone forgot and left a tasty morsel too close to the counter’s edge.

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.

I look back on my early days with both clarity and confusion. Was I really once so small that she could easily carry me in her arms? Did I really spend my first nights with her sharing the same pillow?

I vividly recall the night I realized I no longer could fit my entire self on her pillow. She laughed and told me I was  to the pillow born, but I would have to find a larger one. It’s true about the pillow.

I was born in Black Diamond, Washington in 1993. My father was an Australian Shepherd named Bud, my mother Rosie. Daddy Bud and Mama Rosie belonged to a very nice couple who lived on a small acreage. Daddy Bud was a giant of a dog. Perhaps that is where I acquired my attraction to large males. He was an oversized black tricolor with a wonderful disposition and a love of food.

My mother was a red merle, much smaller than my father. My mother had a wicked streak. She tortured the resident horses by staring at them until they went mad and had to be placed with another family.

I was one of five. It was my mother’s first litter, and a planned pregnancy I might add. I was the only blue merle amongst my siblings. My human birth mother selected me as hers and thus began my relationship with pillows.

Before my eyes were open, in the time of dreamy darkness, when I could hear and smell and feel but not see, she would lift me away from Rosie and carry me to the sacred bed. I knew it was sacred. I could feel it and smell it. Her husband was away on business. The bed was large and empty without him. She would put me on his pillow, diapered of course, and whisper that I was special. I was the only one allowed on the pillow. I was to remain with my birth family while my siblings were offered for adoption. I was indeed very special and blessed.

But circumstances changed. The husband had to follow his job to a far away place. Bud and Rosie were placed with friends and I was offered for adoption. How the gods contrived to place me in such an extraordinary home, I do not know. But there she was, holding me and whispering sweet silliness into my ear. Soon I was in the car headed to my future. My human birth mother wept as we drove away. I was anxious but not frightened. I was ready for my new life to begin.