Home at Last

This morning she took me outside in her nightgown, not quite covering it fully with the little blue spring coat I sometimes curl up on downstairs on the couch. But then she really surprised me. After plugging in the coffee, the one thing I would never want to try, and filling up my first bowl with cold water and my second bowl with brown crunchy bits she went upstairs and laid back into bed. This was a good sign, but sometimes she does this when sick and I position myself where her back is hurting or give her all the time she needs to pet me. She doesn't ask for this: I'm a dog, I just know.

Today, I was ready to do my share, jumping up and making myself comfortable in the indented pillow. She was already dozing off, smelled that sleepy scent, and this was much better than how I feel when she is picking out what I think are called: clothes. First, cold air comes out of that closet. Then, she chooses something scratchy or tight and pulls it over herself. I do not get that at all. Whenever I have something on my back or they zip me up in the dumb parka or even try to soothe me with that bunting that is supposed to relax me...a straight-jacket? for dogs? ... all I can dream of, wiggle for, and work for is freedom. But she does this to herself every day!

I've thought one hundred thousand times that spending more time in that nightgown was right for her. She washes it too often, but sometimes when no one is looking, I pull it out from under her pillow and arrange myself comfortably on it. So far, I don't think she's noticed; I'm discreet. Even though they put up a gate at the foot of the stairs that was supposed to keep me down there when they are gone I am quick like a fox, and slim as an otter, and find my way up the stairs and jump on the bed. I could beat out any of those fussy dogs in the contests. I can take the steps three at a time, turn left, turn right and leap.

A human bed is one of the perks of suburban living. I've tried the street life; it works a while if you're young, but there is nothing like a bed and two square meals a day, plus snacks, at my age. I get tired of running with the crowd, and before I was trapped by the man with the net I gave birth and never saw my puppies again. That's why I took both of her stuffed animals my first week here. I had to love something.

She is getting smarter about why they yard is important. Today five different birds came very close to us. I know how to be still. I save my barking for those packs of deer. The birds, like me, enjoy the hushed sound these days; we can even hear the brook. We don't mind that there are fewer cars, or know actually what cars are, but I've got to admit: They stink. I don't make a fuss once I am inside, but stand near the tail pipe or walk through a parking lot is a dog's nightmare. Or try crossing the street with those things coming at you from all directions and two wild giant dogs on your tail. I was smart. I got back home.

Back to the birds. They were bright colors, and one was that crazy woodpecker, the one that probably suffers from a brain injury, but keeps on banging. She seemed to hear them more acutely, and she didn't rush me when I stuck my nose in the deer poop and began to eat. This is a time-tested tool in the hunt, but she thinks it's digusting.

Well, this time she was a little less repelled than usual. You can take an old human on new treks! Then, when I wanted to head over to see the new daffodils, it was as if I had read her mind. She liked them, too, and they reminded me of my days on the street. Whenever I saw something like that -- even a dandelion, which tastes better than you think -- I gave thanks. Or an acorn! She was surprised the first autumn after she brought me home from the pound. And was surprised that I drank the morning dew from fresh grass. And that I saved acorns for later. And that I popped seeding dandelions in my mouth. And that I even could catch a fly or a grasshopper for a quick snack. See, she had a lot more to learn from me than she thought. Of course she learned that though I could catch it, I would spit out a frog; no one eats that other than the French, and only after cooking to a crisp.

I wonder what she dreams about. I dream about the fly, the grasshopper, the daffodil, the water bowl -- but in any order. I dream of how she scratches my nose or rubs my underside or calls me "good girl." I remember how lonely I feel when she is gone and how I am reborn every time she enter the door.

But now she is home, so I lay under her desk near her feet when she finally awakens and writes. This serves the purpose of guarding her from any small animals that might try to enter the house this way. It lets her know I have her back. It warms her feet. And truth be told, I feel safe there. Yes, I'm really curious about what she is writing, but I think it's like how I feel with a bone. She is squeezing something out that she cannot get enough of. Minutes, even hours, can pass, and she is totally absorbed. I think that little box she types on is like a very flat bone.

From time to time, she stops her work, puts on John Denver, and picks me up for shmoosy. This means she will pet me and rock me to the music, and I cannot thank John enough for creating music especially designed to foster the human-canine bond. Once, I ran into the room when she started the music, and she was excited to see "The World Wildlife Federation Presents'... I cannot read yet, but I liked the colors on the screen and they change as I sit on her lap. My life is much fuller now that she is home, and everything would be perfect if she would just share more of that Caesar salad for lunch with me.