I spend a lot of time with my fuzzy beasts. So much time that, as a 29-year-old woman, of course I frequently wonder what they are thinking. In order of neediness, they are as follows:
I’ve been an animal lover my entire life. I cried when I watched Blackfish. I brake for turtles on the road and help them across (recent development, but hey, I’m claiming it.)
ASPCA commercials make me so anxious I have to change the channel, and I basically cringe at the sound of Sarah McLachlan now. (Funny-slash-sad story I went to see Sarah once when we lived in Louisville and the two women in front of us wailed — WAILED — actually, sort of brayed — during most of her set. Finally they got up and left. It was a bit distracting.)
On a long weekend like this one where we don’t have any particular plans, I end up taking Ripley for lots of walks, and we spend quite a bit of time in the backyard near the pool.
This is turn causes the middle child, Ollie, to stand at the backdoor and cry. He cries as if he’s been abandoned, like all he’s ever wanted to do is come outside into the sunlight, into freedom.
When I let him outside, what does he promptly do? He runs over to the grass (or maybe even the lilies, which are toxic to cats, btw) and starts scarfing it down. Grass, grass, grass, munch, munch, munch. Give him 30 minutes, and it’s regurgitated all over the dining room floor (precisely on the edge of the new rug, we couldn’t be bothered to do it on the hardwood or one of the old rugs — nope).
So after a day outside, maybe mulching or weeding or cleaning the garage, a lot of times you just want to chill. But generally, this one’s energy never seems to be depleted:
When I first got her in 2012, I was training for the Marshall half-marathon. I would take her on my practice runs, going anywhere from 3-5 miles, several times of week. It didn’t phase her. Like, at all. I came to realize that I would never be able to tire this dog out.
So we live with it. We try to get her as much activity as possible, and of course I have the Mommy Guilt from working a full-time job. I guess with human children they eventually go to school and the guilt is somewhat abated. With The Dog, she is always a baby child.
They are so excited when you come through the door, it makes you wonder what it is they do all day. Do they have rounds of Street Fighter-style matches? Do they snuggle and read recent literary classics?
Regardless, they all hate Mondays. I think they allow themselves to forget, just for a day or so, that we have jobs that need attending, and the getting-ready routine of Monday always inspires literal huffs and hiding of faces in the pillows.
I guess they think if they hide their faces, they don’t have to acknowledge the weekend is over.
I’m right there with ya, Rip.