BarkingProse

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.

My days are numbered and the number is small. But she can not yet bear to think of my passing. So I do my best to appear as sturdy as my old bones allow. She tells me daily how much she loves me. She says she knows this is probably my last year. But the words lack conviction. She speaks them to prepare herself for the time without me. But she is not ready for me to leave, and so I remain.

She tells me the fates brought us together. She had just lost her beloved Jesse and her heart was sad. She had forgotten how to laugh. The house was too quiet, empty, lonely. She received a call that I was available. “No, no – it’s too soon!” she said.

But then she saw me. She picked me up and buried her face in my puppy fur. Her salty tears were delightful to my puppy tongue. I grabbed her hair, scratched her face and dribbled a little pee on her shirt. She was mine. I had claimed her. She took me home.

I was never perfect, but I did try to please her. She wanted me to make my toilet outside. I didn’t see the point in that at first, but if it made her happy it was fine with me. Oh I did have a few accidents in the early months. Once she made the mistake of setting me on a down comforter. I was five months old at the time. I knew the comforter was a sacred spot. It smelled of her and the man of the house. It smelled of Jesse. I got real excited. I grabbed the comforter and shook it. A small hole appeared. Down and feathers floated out. The urge to kill overcame me. I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t in a house in the city. I was alone in the wilderness fighting for my very survival, viciously killing my prey.

“Codie! What are you doing?”  She stood, towering above me. She was angry at herself for foolishly putting me on the comforter. I was young and ashamed. I didn’t know how to apologize. In my embarrassment I peed on the comforter. Instantly the horror of what I had done was clear to me. A few moments of puppy madness and I had destroyed my world. She would hate me. She would take me back to my birth home and demand a refund. I would never be allowed in the sacred bedroom again. I would be banished, ignored, left for hours in the backyard to contemplate my evil deeds.

I didn’t expect what happened next. She started laughing. Little giggles at first. I looked at her. Maybe she was choking with rage. But she was definitely laughing. She swept me up  and danced with me. She laughed and hugged me and called me a silly beast. She told me it was her fault. She should never have put me on the comforter. The comforter was old and it didn’t matter anyway. She told me she loved me and would take care of me forever but I had to try to learn her ways and I had to promise to stay with her as long as I could.

I was delirious with joy. She still loved me despite my terrible crime. Of course I would try to be better. I would grow up and learn her human ways. I would learn my place in her world and try to do what she asked of me. I promised that I would stay with her forever. I would grow old with her.  Our lives would change over time, but we would be together always.

And now that I can no longer hear and barely see, now that my old bones struggle to move me from one room to another, I remember my promise.

My days are numbered. My time is short. I must hurry to write my story.