Published Wednesday, August 04, 2010 4:40 PM
Updated Wednesday, August 04, 2010 4:41 PM
Amen, Will. There is no place worthy of the name “Heaven” that would deign to keep our furry friends outside the gates, pearly or otherwise.
The truth is, we need our critters probably more than they need us. They do things for us no one else can. They put up with our foibles, our faults, our shortcomings, and they do it with a happy tail wag and a soft kiss. They just want to be there.
No one communicates such a feeling more eloquently.
Even as I write this, my two low riders, the wonder corgis, have jockeyed for their respective positions and are now splayed luxuriously across my feet. I will feel deeply ashamed when I have to get up. Who wants to disturb that?
How many of you dance with your dog? Oh, come on; you know you do. We all do.
If you have a bigger dog, a lab or golden retriever, maybe, then sooner or later the dog jumps up on hind legs and puts front paws on your chest. You grab the paws and you dance. They love it and so do you.
My late, great golden sweetheart, Beauty, used to live for that dance – and so did I – I would sing the song, a variation of the Young Rascals tune, “It’s a Beautiful Morning:” “It’s a beautiful morning, oooh yeah …”
She would come in with the “Awhoo woo woos” like a pro. What a great way to erase the sting of a truly lousy day.
My wonder corgis don’t dance with me so much, but they do get on their wee bitty hind legs and enthusiastically shuffle around my feet as I glide, Temptation-like, to the refrigerator for a dose of attitude adjustment.
Truly, five minutes with them does more good for mind, body and spirit than all the happy juice ever distilled in Milwaukee.
I swore I wouldn’t be one of those crazy old people that dress their dogs in sweaters and give them ice cream cake with candles on their birthdays. No spoiling those creatures for me – they’re just dogs. I mean, just because I constantly talk to them and expect lucid answers – and get them – means nothing.
Just because I feel such extreme guilt when I get into the car without them – to the point that I drive them around the block just so they can go for a ride – only means that I am sensitive to the fact that they, like all God’s creatures, need an outlet. The fact that I ask their opinion on everything from what kind of weed whacker I need to buy to how best to solve the Gulf oil spill only means that I am simply using lesser life forms to work out deep intellectual conundrums.
Blah, blah, blah, Ginger, right?
Yeah, right.
The fact is, we need our dogs, probably more than they need us.
If I’ve had a truly heinous day, nothing lifts my spirits more than my two low riders giving me the classic butt-wiggly, yippy dippy happy doggy dance when I walk through the door. That’s all good, a perfect place to call normal, a ritual to slow a head reeling with the horrors of the day. Trust me, you see two corgis glad to see you and you forget all about quitting this lousy job to become, say, a serial killer.
On the other hand, if people in the office start doing the classic butt-wiggly, yippy dippy happy doggy dance when I walk through the door, I’ll be taking their measurements for rubber tuxedos even as I run screaming into the street.