This is not a "My Dog Died" post, don't worry.

Roughly eight years ago I was living in CollegeTown, Missouri and decided it was Time to Get a Dog. I drove a handful of hours down to Missouri'sMiniVegas and helped Biff’s parents out with their canine overpopulation problem. That is to say, I spent some time in a dark, hay-strewn basement and fell in love with the tiny black puppy (stamped with a white upside-down heart on her chest) calmly hanging back from the bunch and waiting for me to take her home. So I did. I scooped her up, buckled on a little green collar, and popped her into the crate in the back seat of my Chevy Nova. Whatever you do, do not take her out of the crate, even if she cries, Biff’s mom warned me.

Well. One hour into the return trip and there was much crying and wailing and throwing up from the crate in the back. I stopped at a gas station, squatted down beside the car, opened the crate door and looked this little black monster in the eye. This does not mean anything, little one, and we are never going to tell anyone I broke the Rule. And then I drove the next three hours with a snoozing little black ball of fur on my lap.

Boomba and I had some good times in CollegeTown, MO. She originally slept in a beanbag chair next to my bed (until the night of Puppy's First Thunderstorm), and used to enjoy laying sprawled out in my arms while I watched tv. I’d get home from bartending at 4 in the morning and we’d go racing through town, down the sidewalk of the main street, and around and around the roof of the parking garage near my apartment. Some days we would hike (and get lost) in the woods (no leash necessary), stroll through town, or hang out at the bar while I prepared to open it for the evening. Despite long work hours, a neglectful (but thankfully very temporary) roommate, and all the housetraining issues, Boomba and I were a team- she was my heart and soul, and the Best Dog in the World.

There was a move, and a depression cloud, a relationship that turned into a marriage, a Bad Experience with a bulldog, another move, a second dog added to the mix, fewer walks, less time, dog fights, food issues, another move, another dog came to live with us (R.I.P. little buddy), more work, more long hours, more hectic schedules, less attention, ANOTHER dog added to the family… Now the Best Dog in the World is older, crankier, and tends to get into things she shouldn’t, more often than she should.

But. This past weekend Monk took a break from reality and went out of town to visit a friend. Blockhead and BabyGirl went to the kennel. And Boomba and I rattled around the house together in quiet, blissful companionship. The difference in attitude, temperament and atmosphere in the house all weekend was just unbelievable. We cuddled, we walked, we threw the ball, had a few long talks, shared some laughs… and even though she didn’t help me clean the house yesterday, I almost couldn’t breathe at how amazing it was to just be a girl and her dog again. Time rewound and simplified itself for a couple of (too-short) days. No one to explain myself to, no pack to mediate and stress over, no food/aggression issues, not being woken up at an ungodly hour because someone else is getting up or Blockhead’s complaining that it’s time for breakfast… I’d keep going, but I think I might start to cry, y’all.

I opened my eyes yesterday morning and as my gaze landed on 75 pounds of black lab on her back next to me, paws folded in the air, dozing with a crooked little smile on her (now grayer and filled-out) face I thought this is perfection. This little bit of peace in a quiet space, the sunlight slipping through the blinds, the Decent Hour on the clock, me and the Best Dog in the World.

Now if we could only do something about the dog breath (gag) and the Guinness Book amounts of shedding (hello, Dyson).

1 comment:

Blogger Lisa said...

Awww. I love this post. :-)

Dysons are GOOD for that Dog hair problem.

6:21 PM  

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