Pickering was, simply, there for me, a warm sympathetic weight on my thigh, the canine version of a murmuring, back-patting listener.
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I think of Milly racing up and down her steep stairs and of Pickering nesting between my ribs. I think about the long moment that Daisy will look at me before she takes it in that I’ve come back after a week and the moment she decides to become a turban. I keep playing over those greetings until sleep comes.
The Chuck-it balls I use aren’t cheap so I keep a running tally of where they are in the park. When a ball-thief gets hold of one, I have two options. The first is to ask the owner for help. If the owner tries to get the ball back and can’t, I laugh, sympathize, shrug my shoulders and get on with my life.
Last week, a respondent to my post wrote of “what a great neighborhood we live in”. Maybe we can put out kibble where our snarkiness is for once. Maybe someone reading this wants a Family Dog rather than a dog hanging out around a family.
If you want to learn about people, get a dog. If you want to know the depths of people, become a walker.
We wrestled through four oatmeal cookies, a complete rearrangement of the furniture, two puncture wounds, numerous scrapes and bruises that were wonderfully livid after my shower the next morning, a stream of barking and my tears, pleading and blood for 75 minutes. I figured, by the time the clerk informed me the plane would be closing its doors in ten minutes, that I’d done ten 75-pound lifts.
When my brother stuffed Daisy into the crate at the airport, he turned to me and said, “You know, you don’t have to keep this dog.” His words sealed my pact with the little pagan, although everyone on the plane had to listen to her barking in the hold for the Twin Cities – La Guardia leg of the trip.
I bought my dog, Daisy, while I was on a trip and we’ve been flying ever since. Because so many people ask how I manage to travel with her, I’m sharing here what I’ve learned over the years.
There is nothing more pathetic than a dog that has walked through salt. It sits, lifts its paws and looks up in excruciating pain until its walker can get a handful of pure snow and rub the paws clean.
It was with some trepidation that I entered into the space of work styles for a completely unscientific sampling of the taboo topic of what we like getting from our clients at the end of the year.
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