Until this Sunday. I am steadily more vertical in my pursuits, but not reliably so. I am no kind of dog-scooper, for now, and I’m completely useless as a poop-scooper. Miss Chioux stayed over Saturday, like usual, but she was hugely disappointed in me: I wasn’t playing right. Cathleen was a hero in every way, but I wasn’t good for much until Sunday morning. And, of course, there was no way I could take her to Fellowship Hour.
BFD? It matters to me. I’m trying to figure out what she can figure out, and the reliability of her weekly routine matters to us both. If she was clocking her weeks on the bright spot – Fellowship Hour – then I threw out more than my back. But it matters just because I love her and I want for her to have as much as she can of everything she loves.
How she’ll deal with this exception, I don’t know. I may be expecting too much from her – each day a brand new surprise, too many to keep track of. And yet I know she can clock her days, and many of our other dogs could, too. Ophelia, a Redbone Coon Hound, would come with her lead when she knew by the late-afternoon light that it was walking time – and so she would show up at 11 am on cloudy days.
All dogs – all mammals? all organisms? – live by the sun. Cleo is very playful for a French Bulldog, and we have worked hard to keep her busy – to not let her slip into that lazy torpor that defines too many dogs’ lives. But it’s been fun to watch her sleep cycle Read more