I often hear a rhythmic thumping and look over to find you, asleep, wagging your tail. Thwap, thwap, thwap it goes against the floor. I don’t have to wonder what you’re dreaming about that’s making you so happy. Everything makes you happy. I mean, food, of course. Treats. Toys.
Mostly beings, though. Humans, you love humans. And other dogs. But really anything with a soul. When we’re hiking, sometimes I can hear Violet’s thoughts, “Bird! Deer! Bunny! Human! Bug!” and yours, “Friend! Friend! Friend! Friend! Friend!” What a sweet baby.
You’re very much the antithesis to your mother’s self-absorbed skeptic with a propensity for depression. Thank god for that.
You love going places in the car, but you hate the car. I think you have motion sickness. You spend all your time, if you’re in the back seat,
…and, if you’re in the way-back,
I know you’re uncomfortable, but it’s pretty cute. And your motion sickness reminds me that you’re mortal. You seem invincible much of the time—bashing your head into furniture and not even blinking, for example. There was the time at the end of our trip to Massachusetts when you got all listless, and I was freaking out. Turns out you had frolicked in the sand so much without rinsing out between your toes, that the area between your paw pads was all raw and bloody and scabby. I didn’t figure it out for a few days. I felt like a bad parent, and I’m sorry you had to go through all that pain.
Something only a mother could love: You poot audibly. I’m always surprised when I look over and don’t see a pile of crap on the floor because it smells that bad. Seriously, I want to be mad at you because the stink burns my nostril hairs, but the sound is so funny, a little “pfft” or a “thoo”, and you look so cute lying there with your eyebrows arched and your upper lip flaps hanging over your lower lips, and I just have to go kiss your silly forehead. Oh god. I worry about the Pavlovian response you’re developing.
Actually, scratch that. I think, had you been there, you might’ve effed up Pavlov’s experiments. You don’t so much “learn“. Mr. Carlos and Ms. Kathy, the Spanish teachers at my old school—well, we used to joke about which teachers our dogs would get if they went there. One of Ms. Kathy’s would have done well in my class; alas, you would’ve needed Ms. Berry. Because you’re special.
But you’re my baby. You’re more than a year-and-a-half old now, but you’re still a big, gallumphy baby. My baby.