(Late update: My entry is banal today at best. Read if you must, but your time would be far better spent reading Tube City's take on two of my personal favorite writers -- Lileks and Keillor. It's the August 23 entry.)
Things just go from bad to worse for our poor dogs.
First, we bring that little screechy thing home -- and now, nearly 15 months later, little screechy is careening around the house behind his little push-cart, and it just about scares the poor beasts to death.
Really, though, I've got to hand it to Smithers and Kelsey. In spite of the fact that Adam is a holy terror behind the wheel of that thing (it kind of looks like a kiddie-sized lawnmower, if you don't know what I'm talking about, but with a solid triangular base just perfect for the almost-walking set), the mutts handle it with aplomb. They see him coming, and head for the hills.
I suppose at 15 months Adam is a wee bit behind schedule as far as walking. Ah well. It'll happen soon enough -- he's still somewhat large for his age, so that may be keeping him from getting all of his limbs co-ordinated enough to walk. We don't worry about stuff like that. It'll happen when it happens.
Meanwhile, the dogs and I continue our daily rituals. As soon as I get the dinner dishes cleaned up while Julie plays with Adam in the living room, the dogs know what's coming. Smithers pulls the flat-bassett routine (where he flattens himself on the floor, ears flooped out to the side) while Kelsey paces back and forth in anticipation. The know what's coming, and they know what's expected of them.
As soon as I go to the closet to get my shoes, Kelsey starts jumping up and down and yipping in her high-pitched, annoying manner. Smithers makes a beeline for the den. By the time I grab three plastic Post-Gazette bags, Kelsey is in full hysteria and leaping about like a lunatic. Eventually, I chase her down and get her collar on her -- just in time for the bigger challenge.
This is Smithers' favorite event of the day. Makin' ol' dad look like an idiot time.
As soon as I make a move towards the hound, he goes into his crouch. His "let's play" crouch. That means it's time for me to chase him upwards of twenty times around the coffee table. You wouldn't think a bassett -- and a big bassett at that -- would be very nimble. Well, keep in mind how low to the ground he is, and that he's quicker than you think. Every night I pray that no one is looking in the windows while I chase the idiot beast around the table. And every night I get a little ticked at having to go through the ritual. But the truth is, it's all part of what makes our dogs our dogs, and I wouldn't change a thing about them.
Well, maybe I'd make Smithers smell a little better, and Kelsey a little less yippy. But still, they're ours and like Mr. Rogers I like them as they are.
Other people must, too. There are a number of kids on our walk route who wait every night for the arrival of our dynamic duo. Tonight, one woman on the route (with whom I've only had a nodding acquaintance up until now) stopped me to tell me how much she enjoys watching the dogs go by each night.
Once again, our dogs are far more popular than I'll ever be.
(By the way, there's a small photo gallery of the mutts over at my wretchedly awful other site. Feel free to get a gander at them, but for the love of God, please ignore the horror of the way that site looks. I swear I'm going to get around to fixing it soon....)
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