Silently in sync

 

 Although Charly is completely deaf, she and I communicate masterfully.  Am sure routines help us predict what each other wants or will do…having gauged each other’s expectations over the years.  I know she loves a good-morning-hug in “her” room / my closet.  I know she needs a belly rub every single day.  I know her tummy is rumbly in the morning…she will vocalize to hurry the serving of breakfast.  I know she likes to have a biscuit a few seconds before I leave for work as a good-bye gesture.  She knows to have a post-breakfast-lie-down while my tea steeps before our walk.  She knows to wait inside the garage even if the door is open, until I have my runners tied.  She knows that she can ignore me for a few minutes to scout out packages with interesting contents before I am free from laces.  She knows to stay close enough for me to easily clip on her collar and my waist leash.  We move in unison – yes, partially because we are physically tied together!  But also because we’ve danced this dance so many times.  (Yes, both of us are well-trained). 

Rugs…who needs them?!

  I dreamt of having large beautiful rugs in my home – the plush, light-coloured ones that make a room look open and warm…sitting or lying on a thick rug with fluffy pillows, and reading a book.  But, with a black and white (and used-to-be brown) dog who is non-hypoallergenic, I have settled for small rugs at entries and exits to wipe our feet on, and which all can be put in the washer and dryer.  Then, we moved, and my dream came true…for a while.

At the time of our last move, we no longer had to worry about spills by our small child, leaks from her body, or marker marks from her colouring off pages.  The dog too was older, no longer running in mud, and was calmer.  It was time to try a real rug.  I furnished our sitting room with an off-white shag rug.  It reminded me of the ‘70s (except it was only on the floor, not the walls).  It was luxurious.  It was so clean.  It was so soft.  Until…it wasn’t.  The child wasn’t leaking anymore, but the dog started to at times.  The dog was less active, but that meant she lay on the road or sidewalk, or in the dirt more often.  The rug developed a grey hue where the dog slept on it…the same spot every day…multiple times a day.  The hue deepened into a stain.  The stain darkened.  Then, a yellow spot appeared near the stain…and wouldn’t entirely come out.  Then, another yellow spot.  Paul, the carpet cleaner, used his fancy orange products, but even he could not keep up with the grey, the dark grey, and the yellow….  So, there shall not be any more large light lush rugs, and I’m back to dreaming.

Happy mother's day dog-moms!

  Here is a poem my daughter recently wrote about Charly...

I remember when you were still a puppy and I was small

You were so gentle, licking food off my legs

And letting me use your teeth as an xylophone.

Why were you so gentle?

 

I remember when we would make pancakes 

You would be whining for your share

We reluctantly gave you a piece.

But, why were you never full?

 

I remember when you ate the turkey

The only time you were full

We wrestled the bird out of your mouth.

Did you ever think you could get away with your crime?

 

I remember when you began to grow old

You walked slow short distances

Stairs were but a distant memory.

How will we tell when you are about to leave us?

Searching for the “golden ticket” – phrase from Raold Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

  It has been five and a half years since Charly ate four bricks of chocolate, and then multiple rounds of charcoal to expel the toxins from her system (see OldDogBlog “Brazen” on December 8, 2023).  And in those five and a half years, she continues her quest to conquer and consume any cacao prize.  She needs no promise of a chocolate factory tour…she cares not for fame or money.  She simply must eat chocolate.  She must. 

Our family orders most of our required non-perishable items.  They accumulate in the garage, and as Charly waits for me to tie my shoes or don my rain gear for our next walk, she sniffs, prods, choses, and then tears.  I’ve stopped wagging my finger in front of her dismissive eyes.  Her sheer delight at ripping into delivery packages that host various forms of cacao, force me to let her have those moments…albeit monitored moments.  Then, outer box or plastic strewn about, I snatch away the prize.  She stands among tattered three centimetre squared-ish pieces of the chocolate-housing-exterior, and stares at me with disdain.  She found and opened it after all.  As a dog led by her stomach’s yearnings, she will never stop searching for her “golden ticket”.