I have two dogs. One is a twelve year-old Jack Russell and one is a two year-old corgi. Both are males. The Jack sleeps almost twenty-two or more hours a day, while the corgi rests, awaiting my returns for various locations. If I am at home, the little hairballs must be within touching distance. Not that I am trying to touch them, but they must be touching me. Like the men they are, they take up a lot of room in my bed. The Jack must be jammed up against my leg, preferably under the covers, which I strongly resist, and the corgi moves around from top to bottom of the bed but remains within protective distance should I need assistance.
The hair! Oh, the hair! The Jack has short hair, and the corgi has long hair. Both shed constantly. I can’t believe how much hair I collect in the vacuum cleaner every week. It’s insane. (Did you know that the definition of “insane” is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result?) Now, think about that definition in conjunction with vacuuming. The result is always the same. My vacuum stinks; it’s filled with dust and hair, but my rug is temporarily neat. Lovely.
How about the cost of dog food? I could buy the least expensive, which is probably the most deadly or I can buy the healthiest, which is ridiculously expensive. I choose a moderately priced bag of food in hopes that I might have to feed them less often and clean up less doggie doo-doo. I find it tremendously inconvenient when the last two scoops of food are in the bin on Sunday morning. Who has time to go to the grocery store on Sunday to buy dog food?
Grooming. The Jack is impossible. No one in my family has ever been able to hold that creature down to cut his nails. He is so strong, so I take him to the groomer just to cut his nails. I am amazed how the Jack knows that I am approaching the groomer’s shop. He hops off the seat and hides under the dash; he begins shaking and his nose and eyes turn pink. How he knows, I am not sure, but he senses trouble just around the next corner. Those groomers are able to keep him under control to some degree, but they use a muzzle or try to be quick in escaping his frequent attempts to pinch their hands with his tiny front teeth. I just walk away until the crisis is over.
On the flip side, both dogs are great company. When I come home from any place, the corgi is waiting at the door, looking sheepish, making me think he’s been up to something. I reach down to pet and greet him with a hug and then he unleashes (sorry) on me, hurling himself against me with such joy. He is saying, “You didn’t leave me forever like I thought you would. You came back for me.” Crazy dog. I was only gone for twenty minutes. The Jack opens one eye as I stroll into the living room where he is curled up the good pillow I bought to bring some pop to my otherwise ordinary living quarters. “Hey, Dog,” I say. “Want to go outside.” He looks at me askance. I know what he is saying. “You’re back? Why?”
In my otherwise uneventful life, I always look forward to the corgi’s smile and the guard dog mentality of the Jack. They keep me entertained; they are also good for lowering my blood pressure, consoling me when I’m sad, and protecting me from harm. Yay for doggies.
