Well Loved

My mother thinks that I think I’m a speech-challenged human who happens to live life on all fours. I am not speech-challenged, I assure you, I speak just fine.

I regret to inform you that it is she who is a bark-challenged dog, albeit a nearly hairless one, who can’t manage to walk on all fours. Honestly, sometimes it’s quite embarrassing. As I pass other dogs guiding their peculiar dogs along, we give each other a knowing look of understanding, nodding gently as we pass.

I guide her for long walks through wooded paths and fields, she brushes off my coat saying she’s looking for ticks <shiver> I hate those. Look away! Just don’t tell me if you find any.

Sometimes I try to tug her towards home. I’m tired. I’m older, not old, just older. We both are silver around the face. She says I look even cuter than I did before. I agree. But anyway, I’ll try to tug her home. She fights me, tugs me further on. I acquiesce. I guess a little longer won’t hurt.

There are other times I simply must lay my paw down. I mimic her, standing on two legs. I cross my paws over the leash, push down, and shake my head no. She laughs! And calls me a naughty lil scheisster pants, whatever that means. I pull back. If none of that works I simply duck my head out of the collar connecting her to me. I walk home. ‘Oh good!’ She’s following me. She’s calling my name. She sounds upset, scared even. I glance back urging her on. ‘You can do it! Keep following! I’ll get you home.’

At times I have to get off the sidewalk and walk her down the middle of the road. You should see how fast she goes! I trot up the front steps to our building and patiently wait by the door. ‘See, there was nothing to be afraid of.’ Poor girl, it really scares her, she’s nearly in tears, but sometimes needs must.

I bring my roommate inside and let her help me out of my outdoor coat and into my lighter indoor clothes. What happens next depends on her. Sometimes I’ll join her on the couch, securing my spot to guard my needy being. Other times she shuts me in our room after I’ve made myself comfortable on my bed. Sometimes I let her share it, it is big after all.

I call out to her letting her know that she accidentally locked me in the room. It must have been an accident because she knows that I can’t reach the knob to get a snack.

I suppose it’s not so bad. There’s a large window letting the light in, an even bigger bed where I burrow in the pillows. She tries blocking off my pillows but is rarely successful. I do wish she’d stop doing that.

I have a selection of beef knuckle bones and hideless rawhide chews, and some of those nasty green things that look suspiciously like her toothbrush, and a full bowl of water. There have been times when she didn’t see that it was empty and I’ve had to flip it upside down so she’d notice. She thinks that’s funny, but still feels horrible, apologizing profusely as she rectifies the situation post haste.

Sometimes I like to enjoy my beef knuckle on my bed. She strongly discourages that, saying that I don’t want crumbs in the covers or greasy fat splotches on the nice blanket. I suppose she’s right, but it is my bed.

I typically let her have the bed at night and take it during the days. Our arrangement worked well. I tried sharing with her- sometimes it was fine- other times she’d thrash about and actually launch me off the bed! Confused and scared I’d slink under the bed to the fort I had made a while back.

Almost instantaneously she’d race off the bed in search of me. ‘Oh my gosh, Colby! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry, it’s ok. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry!’ She’d say and let me know that she didn’t send me flying on purpose. I’d let her think that she coaxed me out from under the bed. I’d even let her hug and kiss me . Sometimes she cried. Other times she’d be shaking. I’d lay my head on her shoulder letting her know I wasn’t mad. I know that she had been through some things and would never purposely cause me harm, but still - I’d skip the big bed for the night and resign myself to the fluffy soft pillow next to the bed. We’d settle back to bed. I’d wait until I heard her snuffling once again before I’d let myself give into sleep myself.

She does this… thing. I hate it when she does it. It breaks my heart. If we weren’t speech/bark challenged I would comfort her and law my paws on her shaking hands and hold them until the trembling stopped.

I’d tell her that it hurt me to see her hurt herself. I’d tell her how I hated seeing her in so much pain, knowing that I was unable to do anything to stop her or take the pain away. And so? I leave the bathroom, my emotional pain mirroring her own. My nostrils twitch at the coppery stench. I’d flinch and hide under the bed next to the noisy floor heater, feeling utterly inadequate and incapable of doing anything. I’d cry silently as I tried not to listen to her quiet sobs. Each sob brought more of the sickly sweet coppery stench under the bed.

There was nothing I could do that would ease her pain. I’d tell her that she loved me so much that I knew with every fiber of my being how loved I was. I’d tell her that I loved her too and that I hoped I had loved her well enough to last a lifetime, to allow room in her heart for another four-legged, speech-challenged human. One that she would rescue and that would rescue her in return.

I hope they love her well and wipe away her tears over me. I know that they wouldn’t replace me, rather they would step in to walk alongside her in the darkest of days and enjoy the beautiful moments. I wish her well, but most of all I wish her love.

Your forever faithful companion,

Colby.