Wednesday, August 1, 2007
A boy and his (girlfriend's) dog~
David is dog sitting for his girlfriend's dog Troy for a few days. And so, it turns out, am I, between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. while David is working.
He's an adorable pug with a mushed in face and severe under-bite, similar to a bulldog, only smaller. And cuter, I have to say. His little tail looks like a doughnut perched precariously on the edge of a table. How can something with an under-bite, wrinkles, and a bottom right canine tooth that refuses to stay hidden be so damn cute?
It's fun having him, and apart from Becky the cat who's taken to sleeping under the bed in what we call her "thunder spot," we're all enjoying Troy.
He's very attentive when I speak, cocking his head thoughtfully as he listens. Even his ears change position-- upright, flopped, or way back-- in response. Very gratifying, not to mention the eye contact. Up until now I've relied heavily on Becky for eye contact. My husband's eyes are usually aimed at:
a.) his computer
b.) the lawn, or weeds he's pulling
c.) the TV
I was thinking that if I could tweak the human evolutionary process a bit, it might be nice to give males the capacity to change ear positions. It would save woman from asking, "Are you listening?" And men couldn't say yes and get away with it any more.
David called from work today to check up on Troy.
"How's he doing?"
"Great. He's on the patio with Bruce right now."
"Does he have enough water?"
"Yeah, he's fine."
"It's not too hot for him is it? Is he panting?"
"He's fine, David. Trust me. He's happy.
Later as I fastened Troy's leash to his collar to go for a walk, Bruce said, "Make sure you lock the leash so it doesn't reel out too far. Let me show you."
"I've used this leash before. I'm all set, " I said. Now there was some eye contact; I saw doubt in his. Just because I can't figure out the TV remote doesn't mean I can't figure out a simple button on a dog leash. I don't say this. I just think it.
"He likes to walk in the street," my husband said. "Make sure . . ."
"I've raised three kids to adulthood." I say. "I can walk a dog. Trust me." I'm not a 13 year-old babysitter. I don't say this, but I make eye contact!
Walking with a dog is not the same as a leisurely stroll with my camera. Troy is only six inches tall, but can he move! Had I known he liked to run I would have put on a bra, but there I was, pounding along the sidewalk in flip flops ready to fall off, racing to keep up with a tiny dog, his pink tongue flapping in glee. I told myself the neighbors wouldn't recognize me without my camera, or at this speed. Besides, we don't have a dog.
"Was that you I saw bouncing down the side walk after a dog this morning?"
"We don't have a dog," I'll say.
Tomorrow I'll wear a bra when I walk Troy.