Coffee: Breakfast Blend, Trader Joe’s Brand
A dog showed up at our door.
My roommate’s sister is going out of town. While she’s gone, we’re watching the dog. She’s a small Chihuahua with dark brown eyebrows. She’s very quiet, very polite, and runs in circles when it’s time for food.
Growing up, I was surrounded by dogs. My family had seven over all, five at one time. We inherited two dogs when my grandmother came to live with us. I liked the dogs, maybe even loved them, but they never got into my skin. Some pet owners fall to pieces without a canine companion. They love all dogs, slobber themselves on this or that four-legged critter. It’s beautiful, I kind of envy it. No, I loved the dogs I grew up with, but I’ve got little love for dogs overall.
When you look at me, it’s like you see a different side of me. You see someone bountiful. You see hands hiding treats, a place at the couch, a long leash. You see someone that’s an indispensable part of your social order. In or out of the pack, there’s a definite place for me. That’s what throws me off – I’ve never seen myself so clearly as you do; I find myself better in the cautious eyes of cats.
Still, I gotta admit, our temporary boarder is pretty cute.
Currently Reading: The Sense of an Ending, Julian Barnes (FINISHED! Will share thoughts soon)
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A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of.Ogden Nash, The Private Dining Room and Other Verses