I have lost the knack of blogging. I can’t find my FTK voice. I am having seismic heavings and all kinds of internal whatnottery. I suspect personal growth. I am, of course, foursquare against this. SO LET’S TALK ABOUT MY DOGS! The dogs are, unfortunately, trying to be metaphors. But we will leave that part for another day.
I spent Mother’s Day weekend, appropriately, at my mother’s house, which means the dogs went to the boarders. BAGEL is the rock star of the boarding place. He goes marching in like STING circa Dune and the Black Be-Wing-ed Underpants. They LOVE him there.
He comes in, and the receptionist SAYS, “Oh! It is Bagel! HURRAY!” and then she yells back that Bagel has arrived and all the technicians pour out of the back and lavish him with affection.
Ansley does not get this reception. None of my cats ever do, either. While the Vet Techs all push and jostle each other to GET at him, I say, “Please do not feed him so many treats. He always comes home rolling in brand new fat layers,” and they all say, “OKAY!” without even LOOKING at me because they are too busy scratching all over my dog and promising him endless Snausages with their eyes.
I think they react to him this way because Bagel is the only dog ever to grace earth who LIKES to go to the boarders. He arrives pre-delighted and ready to be thrilled. Even though it is also the SAME place as his vet, where once a year he gets a multitude of painful shots jammed directly into his buttock.
Ansley, who has only been twice, already eyes the building with mistrust and suspicious reserve, but Bagel? Who has been probably 25 times? HURRIES toward it. On Friday he strained so eagerly at the leash that he choked and threw up in his mouth a little bit, which was ALSO this miraculous, wonderful event, like, his internal monolog was: OH LOOK I FOUND SOME VOMIT IN MY MOUTH! YAY! AND I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE TO WAIT NEAR THE CAT! MAYBE NEXT A LONG DEAD POSSUM WILL COME AND ROLL ON ME!It’s all good by Bagel. If you took him someplace and BRANDED him and BEAT him, beat him with BRICKS, and then two weeks later offered to take him back, he would go, delightedly, with a song in his heart, because he is completely innocent of brain cells.
There is NO stupider animal on the planet who isn’t a mollusk or a paramecium.
The vet techs are used to a parade of cowering animals who have the function of MEMORY and LEARNING, who come in tail-tucked and shot-dreading. Bagel comes in wagging, frisking joyously about, his whole body saying, Oh HELLO, PEOPLE! HOW GREAT IT IS HERE! YOU SEEM GREAT, TOO! YAY!
Ansley, by virtue of size and sex and age, believes that Bagel is her alpha. Really, a better choice for pack leader might be the kitchen cabinet, or this bowl of soup I am eating, but he is what she has, so she goes with it. AND to her credit, as his ENTIRE pack, all 18 pounds of her, she tries to back him up, you know?
She had a hard time Friday because ALL REASONABLE evidence pointed to this being a vet visit, which means either a bunch of shots or her PEOPLE disappearing for a week. It was confusing to her to have Bagel acting like Rihanna at Brazillian Carn-ee-val, woooooo! She stood behind him with consternated eyebrows, trying to work up a little troop-ly bolstering, but clearly thinking, “Yo, um, Alpha? Do you know where you ARE?”
Answer: No. He did not.
While they were boarded, they got their yearly exams and shots and flea treatments and a bath. Three days and FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS later (I just threw up in MY mouth a little, but I did not enjoy it…) they came home, Bagel of course fat as a flawn from the endless parade of medically necessary treats administered by the Vet Techs, and both of them smelling like hairy meadows.
It’s disconcerting. I grab Bagel and jam my face into him and I smell this pink and green Spring Fresh Floral-ness. I have to really shove my nose into his floppy neck folds to find that comforting Eu de Hound, pushed way down under rosebushes and new mown grass. The bath also loosened up the undercoat of winter. SO I took them out back to brush them.This is about a third of the hair we peeled off Ansley yesterday with The Magic Dog Peeler (aka The FURminator, TM which is essentially a FIFTY DOLLAR DOG BRUSH, but is worth it because it works like WHOA.) The rest of the hair got winded away in the breezes.
HEY, BIRDS, you are WELCOME. Not only is this free buttload of nest feathering material soft, but it SMELLS like Fabreeze.
And that’s all. Except, not really. I wish that was all.
This pile of hair is a metaphor. It’s about the fourth one to happen here in this one short entry about my big dog being essentially brain dead, and I have had to fight like tigress on steroids to not explain how this applies to a big spiritual lesson, which is so ANTI-FTK that if FTK touched it, that picture of a mushroom would explode and there would SPORES everywhere and we would all have to VACUUM, which, really, housework is the only think I like LESS than introspection.
Who knew dogs were walking, shedding, usually-smelly, currently-fat metaphors. Bagel may be devoid of brain cells, but it turns out he is chock full of symbolism. And sometimes hook worms
Me? THIS IS WHERE I TRY LIKE HELL TO LIVE A PURELY UNEXAMINED LIFE. The only possible conclusion is this:
I need more cats.