Category: Animules

Oh, it’s your tongue.

Dear Redford,

When I got you, you were so calm. Course, you were also dehydrated and full of worms. Now, there’s no such thing as too much exercise. The other day, we walked three miles up Dimmocks Mill Road and three back, and as soon as we got to the house, you bounced around like “So when are we gonna exercise?” and then did about forty sprinty laps around the yard. This morning, after almost an hour of hiking off-leash, you cavorted behind Wa’s house from 9:30 to 2:00. A little bitty snooze this afternoon and you were ready for me to throw the ball for you again.

All that exercise makes you a very hungry boy.  Two-thirds of a can of wet food, six cups of dry food, and whatever vegetable filler I can sneak in there, every day. Even after all that, you want more. You stand in the kitchen, stare at your metal food bowl, and then stomp on the edge of it, making it thwang against the tile. Thwang-ang-ang. I say, “Redford, you just ate!” Head-tilt. Stomp. Thwang-ang-ang. So I give you raw hides and milkbones (the big ones). I smear peanut butter inside your hollow bone for you to lick out. We play ‘Find a Peanut’, which involves me scattering handfuls of peanuts on the kitchen floor for you and Violet to hoover up.

And unlike Violet, who has to watch her girlish figure, there’s not an extra ounce of flesh on you. You’re probably sixty-five or seventy pounds now and pure muscle, and you’re certainly a good three inches taller than your sister. I remember that day I brought you home, you ran right between Violet’s back legs without even ducking!

And your head. Your head is a big block of cheese. In size, shape, and composition. You’ve proven yourself to be, shall we say, hard-of-learning, but you’re still the sweetest goddamn thing there ever was.  At the dog park, you kiss every dog passionately, even when they rrrrr at you. If two dogs get into a fight, you zoom in there and start madly licking muzzles, sure that your love can diffuse any tense situation.

You like to make out with people too, in particular Bobby’s head. I think you like the feel of his close-cropped hair on your tongue.

The most expensive lesson for me has been that you cannot be left alone. I’ve replaced shoes and doormats and grill covers and do you know how much a Japanese maple costs?!

But you know what? You don’t like to be alone. I get it. It’s who you are. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Love,

Amy

“Amy, this is your neighbor Barbara.

Call me back. It’s about your dogs. Bye.”

Oh my god ohmygod OHMYGOD

Options: calls: recent

Number restricted

Barbara, why didn’t you leave your number?

Was it Charlie?

Did that meth-head finally take a break

from mowing his lawn after dark

and take out his pistol

and shoot my babies?

Deep breath:

Inhale exhale one.

Inhale exhale two.

Oh god.

Someone let them out of the fence

and a Ford F-150

(inhale exhale three)

doing way more than 40mph

tore them limb from limb.

Inhale exhale four.

God, grant me the fucking serenity

to accept the fucking things

I cannot fucking change.

Inhale exhale five.

Who would have let them out of the fence?

No!

Someone took them!

Someone saw

their pit bull jaws

and snatched them away

to bully their way to dollars.

Inhale exhale six.

It takes one hundred

deep breaths

and untold catastrophic fantasies

to get from my school

to my house

to find that my dogs

had been digging

a hole

in my yard.

Fuck you, Barbara.

This morning was cloudy and spritzy, and the gate was still closed at the park.  I took the dogs off the leash and let them scamper.  The Eno was high on its banks from the rain, rushing, clay-red.  Violet took off, and I didn’t know where she had gotten to until I heard sound like a bunch of sixth graders trying out their oboes in band class for the first time.

I traipsed through the brush to the riverbank and watched Violet’s black head chugging through the current, a V ripping its way behind her and a flock of geese scattered ten yards in front of her.  Soon she and her prey were gone around the river’s bend, so I wended my way back to the path and walked downstream.

About this time last year, maybe a little later, Violet and Boone and I had been hiking and stopped to splash in a pond.  A lonely goose honked his way across its diameter.  Violet could not resist the siren call of a goose.  In she dove.  Every time she would get close, the goose would crank himself up and alight on the water forty yards away.  But my stubborn girl kept after him.  Boonie didn’t like to swim, so he ran around the water’s edge hoping one or both of them would come ashore.  I followed him at a saunter.  Ten minutes later, Boone and I both sat down in the grass.  Ten minutes after that, I took Boone, walked into the woods, and hid behind a tree, hoping Violet would follow her pack.

No way.  She kept paddling.  I worried she might get exhausted, a cramp, I don’t know.  Would I be able to get to her and pull her out of the water?  This was a big pond, and I’m no champion swimmer.

After a straight forty minutes of doggy-paddling, she finally gave up and came to shore, her chest heaving, her eyes on fire.

So back to this morning, I walked along the path calling Violet’s name.  Redford sprinted, stopped, listened, looked, sprinted.  I prayed she hadn’t gotten too fixated, the roaring river hadn’t taken her a mile downstream, the banks had offered her a foot-hold to climb out.

I crossed a bridge.  A tinkling, a blur of black.  She trotted through the brambles toward us.

Redford gave her effusive kisses on the mouth.  I let his kisses speak for both of us.

The other day, my BOYFRIEND bought Redford and Violet these gigantoid pressed raw hides, which were awesome, as they kept them busy for the better part of an hour one night.  So when I went to the pet store, I picked up a couple more. Even gargantuan-er ones. Beef-basted!

Redford started making love to his on Tuesday night and kept at it when I turned in for the night.  I could hear him scraping away at the thing as I dozed off.  Normally, I would’ve taken it away from him prior to bed, but I had been out late at the Carolina game and couldn’t put together a coherent thought before zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

A few hours later….

Me: (sensing Redford’s face in my face) Redford.

Redford: Ohai!

Me: It’s 1:00am.

Redford: Yeah.

(beat)

Me: What?!

Redford: You know doze big rah hides you got fer me and Vylit?

Me: Yes.

Redford: I like dem!

Me: And you wanted to wake me up to tell me that.

Redford: Yes.

Me: OK, thank you.

(beat)

Me: I got it.

(beat)

Me: You can go to bed now.

Redford: You know doze big rah hides you got fer me and Vylit?

Me: Yes?

Redford: Can we get moar of doze?

Me: You’re not even half way done with the one you have!

Redford: (blink)

Me: Yes, OK, fine.  I’ll get more.

Redford: K. Gnight!

I think it’s time I came clean about Redford’s drinking problem.

He totally binges.  He gets too full and burps, and out comes a torrent of viscous nastiness onto my floor.

He also has a substance abuse problem.  Both Redford and Violet do.  The substance is poop.  Last week, I took the beasts to the park when it was slushy and raining because I knew no one would be there and I could let the dogs off the leash.  They ran around like crazy people, fording rivers, leaping from embankments, chasing vermin, and munching on the excrement of various woodland creatures.  After a little more than an hour, I put them in the car—hadn’t gone 10 feet before I heard YORRRKK from the way back.

Redford had puked.

Puked poop.

In the back of my car.

Ftw.