I am falling in love with this dog.
He's got this great, bigger-than-life personality, which, for a dog, means that he says things to me just by shooting me a look.
Like last night.
I was trying to get him to scoot over on the couch, and I told him to move his ass, because "that's my spot, buddy." He looked at me, the pink of his eyelid standing out soft and bright against the dark brown smudge shadowing his right eye.
"Your spot? Buddy? This is my house. My couch," he seemed to say back, squinting at me in a vicious stare-down.
With Jay at work all day, Bern and I have had some good bonding moments too, and I'm pretty sure we're going to get in a run at the dog park today, green squeaky ball and snacks in tow. I'm also pretty amazed at myself, how much I don't mind this routine, this new sense of responsibility. God, is this what happy parents feel like?
Sure, letting him out at midnight because Jay's fast asleep sort of sucks, and I didn't like seeing him hunker down on someone's lawn this morning, after I conveniently forgot a bag at home, but there's some sort of silent thing between a dog and a dog-lover that makes it real easy for me to adapt to him, even if he's not my dog. It's the way he lays down sort of behind me, sort of on me, when I'm watching TV, curling his neck around my ass so he can look up at me over it. Or the way he has to sleep on top of me, now, at night.
And perhaps scariest of all, the way he hovers around me in the kitchen, snaking between my legs while I'm mixing up a marinade for ribs or sitting on my feet while I'm shredding cheese. Yeah, yeah, I know, he just wants the food. Of course.
But this is the most endearing thing to me, I think, because it reminds me of being little and hanging out with my mom in the kitchen. I'm sure that my constant afootness was irritating, as it is with Bernie and I, but it's also so damn cute and erm...heartwarming.
Fuck. Did I really just say that?
He's got this great, bigger-than-life personality, which, for a dog, means that he says things to me just by shooting me a look.
Like last night.
I was trying to get him to scoot over on the couch, and I told him to move his ass, because "that's my spot, buddy." He looked at me, the pink of his eyelid standing out soft and bright against the dark brown smudge shadowing his right eye.
"Your spot? Buddy? This is my house. My couch," he seemed to say back, squinting at me in a vicious stare-down.
With Jay at work all day, Bern and I have had some good bonding moments too, and I'm pretty sure we're going to get in a run at the dog park today, green squeaky ball and snacks in tow. I'm also pretty amazed at myself, how much I don't mind this routine, this new sense of responsibility. God, is this what happy parents feel like?
Sure, letting him out at midnight because Jay's fast asleep sort of sucks, and I didn't like seeing him hunker down on someone's lawn this morning, after I conveniently forgot a bag at home, but there's some sort of silent thing between a dog and a dog-lover that makes it real easy for me to adapt to him, even if he's not my dog. It's the way he lays down sort of behind me, sort of on me, when I'm watching TV, curling his neck around my ass so he can look up at me over it. Or the way he has to sleep on top of me, now, at night.
And perhaps scariest of all, the way he hovers around me in the kitchen, snaking between my legs while I'm mixing up a marinade for ribs or sitting on my feet while I'm shredding cheese. Yeah, yeah, I know, he just wants the food. Of course.
But this is the most endearing thing to me, I think, because it reminds me of being little and hanging out with my mom in the kitchen. I'm sure that my constant afootness was irritating, as it is with Bernie and I, but it's also so damn cute and erm...heartwarming.
Fuck. Did I really just say that?
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