You may be surprised to see another recycled post, in light of Friday’s big news that the first draft of Different Dream Parenting is done. Really, truly, the recycled posts will end soon, but a grace period is needed until I catch up on all the things shoved into the “when the first draft is done” pile.
Perhaps this post from February 4, 2009 will put a smile on your face. The “yesterday’s worries” mentioned in the first line refer to the bitterly cold and snowy winter chronicled in the previous day’s post. Our weather’s a little better this winter (though as I write, snow is falling and a doozy of a storm is predicted for tonight), but Abby the dog remains unchanged. Her two constant, subliminal messages are “pet me, pet me” and “feed me, feed me.” She is as fickle as ever, as happy to live with my sister-in-law as ever, as demanding as ever, and a wonderful diversion in the middle of winter.
Pet Me, Pet Me
You’ll be glad to know that yesterday’s worries about driving elderly women around in the cold came to naught. By the time I picked them up, the car was toasty, and we found a perfect handicapped parking spot in the first lot we scoped out – six feet from the Applebee’s entrance. The pavement was dry, the sun was shining, and we talked the hours away.
It was the fickle dachshund we used to own that cast a pall on the afternoon. Normally, when I visit Mom, Abby tosses her hair over her shoulder, shrugs, and with her grey little nose in the air, turns away. If my sister-in-law, who is the love of Abby’s life is home, the dog doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
But yesterday, when I was working on Mom’s checkbook, a task which takes the coordinated effort of all my brain cells and absolutely no interruptions, Abby decided she loved me again. Of course, she didn’t really love me. She just wanted to use me, or at least my hand, which she decided should be petting her since she’s a whole lot cuter than Mom’s checkbook. At least that’s what she thinks, but the checkbook might have a different opinion.
Anyway, the dog hunkered down at my feet and stared at me, or rather at my hand, sending one of the two subliminal messages she knows. Pet me, pet me. In case you’re wondering, the second message is Feed me, feed me. The second subliminal message explains why Abby remained at my feet instead of on my lap. She’s gotten too fat to jump on the couch. So she stared and stared while I concentrated on recording deposits and withdrawals in the right column, something I routinely mess up in our checkbook, but not in Mom’s. I would never live it down.
Finally, the stare got to me, and I petted the dog. For a few minutes we were best friends again. She tried to make me feel like the center of her world, but I didn’t fall for the little scam. I reminded myself that the minute my sister-in-law walked through the door, the fickle, people-using dachshund would abandon me without a second thought. Having avoided a frigid lunch disaster, I wasn’t about to succumb to heartbreak at the paws of a cold-hearted canine.
I got home, heart intact, in time for supper with Hiram. I didn’t even mention our people-using ex-dog to him. Unlike me, he takes it personally.
