Me: Dude, you CANNOT be on the couch. You are too big!
The Dog: Yes I can; I can prove it…
Me: No… Get… Gerrofff… Down! Gosh darn you are heavy!
The Dog: I propose a compromise.
Me: Fine. Whatever lets me focus this episode of Game of Thrones.
Thoughts on Life and Lemons by Rachel
Wensley whimpered in his sleep this morning. Then he woke with a start and clambered to cuddle with me, pushing his way on to my chest and nuzzling his nose in under my chin. I realized he was shaking and I tried to reassure him.
He has been acting strangely all morning and won’t stray from my side. I finally put his bed next to my monitor so I could get some work done. That wasn’t close enough, however.
It’s kind of endearing , but it’s worrying also. He’s never acted like this before. What could he have dreamt about that put him in this state, even hours later?
I had a dream that Trump was elected and I woke up wanting to climb in someone’s pocket. Maybe it was a canine version of that nightmare.
Tonight, I told Ira Glass that I have a dog. It may have been the shortest interview that he ever conducted, but I feel that my entire life has been validated. This happened; I may now die without regret.
Ira: Okay, you: you get the last question.
Me: I just want to know how Piney is doing.
Ira: Piney??? (There was no recollection on his face… I thought I got the name wrong.)
Me: Your dog?
Ira: I know who Piney is. I assume you are asking because you have a dog?
Ira: What kind?
Me: Yorkshire terrier.
Ira: Has he ever bitten anyone?
Me: Yes (are we seriously still talking?! Or is this like that time I dreamt I was friends with Tom Hanks’ mom?)
Ira: But he’s small so it isn’t a big deal…?
Me: Yes, that’s true.
Ira: Well… (turns to the audience) Just to explain, I have a pitbull… (Proceeds to re-cap entire episode from the dog’s emotional issues down to the search for kangaroo meat in NYC, then turns back to me.) But anyway, yes: Piney is fine.
My dog has a condition that makes his trachea collapse when he gets excited. Like… Say… When the mailman comes. Probably to murder us. All dogs know that mailmen are evil and have a freak out but mine does that and then spends fifteen minutes trying to get air back in his lungs without sounding like a Harley Davidson.
Once or twice a day, no biggie. Halloween? Nightmare on Elm Street. (There are a lot of elm trees on my street, but that’s not really what it’s called.)
So I’m opting out. I feel badly about it. Sort of. But this is what I’m doing this year. Candy is candy, right? Getting me to open the door is the least fun part.
is what throw pillows are for.
And one from the side…
I took Wensleydale (my Yorkshire terrier) out for a walk just now. I was just home from work and he was just up from a long day of napping. We got to my next door neighbor’s house and he squatted to drop a turd. “This will be a short walk,” I thought as I spooled a sack off of the roll of blue poop bags I keep in my coat pocket at all times.
Just then, Wensley barked and before I could turn he had slipped out of his harness (a very secure garment that fastens with wide strips of Velcro over both his chest and stomach, but when there is a will, dot dot dot) and he was running into the street.
Luckily, I live in a pretty lazy neighborhood. But this is the time of day when everyone is coming home from work. It is also the time of day where we lose the light very quickly. I was already straining to see where the turd was located when all of this happened.
Wensley had taken off after a college student who was on a bicycle, taking his poodle mix for a run. The student stopped the bicycle to keep from hitting Wensley, who stopped to sniff poodle. I jogged over. “This was a short lived escape,” I thought. Why do I bother with internal dialogue? I’m always wrong. I should constantly be thinking the phrase, “Let’s see what happens next.” And nothing else.
The student started riding again and Wensley took off across the street where a woman and her elementary school aged daughter were walking up the sidewalk. He sniffed at them but before they could catch him he took off after the bicycle again. After two and a half more zig zags back and forth across the street – me just too far behind the dog to catch him and trailing strip of blue bags behind me like a wind sock – Wensley finally ran to the little girl and she caught him.
“Thank you, thank you thank you…” I was saying to her and her mother both as I scooped the dog up in my arms.
Her mother gave the little girl a nudge in the armpit.
“Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?” the little girl asked.
“I’ll take four boxes,” I said, without a fraction of a pause.
Heed my story, little girls of the world! Never has a better sale been sold. If she had a wagon of boxes instead of a sign up sheet I would have bought them all.
In truth, I am feeling a little cheap for only buying four, but it is January and I’m still committed to better fitting pants.
In case you are wondering, I went back and found the turd. And Wensley is home and safe. I’m just not speaking to him at the moment.