I receive many notes about Ellie.
“Does she like the new place?’
“Is Ellie comfortable?”
“What does Ellie think?”
I can only answer those questions like any man with a dog; I don’t know.
Dogs, including Ellie, are like side dishes to life. They are not appetizers but more like potatoes or noodles—always on the table. Don’t get me wrong, but I love this dog. But we are not pet coddlers, nor do we call her a fur baby. We refer to her by name or “the dog.” She doesn’t care; dogs care far less than we think, even though we naturally apply human traits to them to be inclusive. I think that’s dandy.
I know when she’s happiest, and that’s when I walk toward the rolling bin of kibble or back toward her dish with a Starbucks commemorative State of Maine mug full of her Purina.
Yes, we’ve tried other foods because everyone claims that what she eats isn’t the best for her. She hates most other food. You see, people give out advice like you’ve asked for it. I don’t.
I can tell if a dog is pleased with its life by the way and where it sleeps. If it’s on the couch, I know the owners are fabulous, and the dog is well cared for. Up until the arrival of this new couch, Ellie could sleep on any furniture she wanted. But, for a time, we are trying to keep her off it, providing her with three beds in the house and a chair that she’s always liked.
Our first few nights at the new house have been interrupted by a little more pacing than usual, but it’s because the house is so quiet. It unnerves Ellie a little, and her toenails need trimming because the clicking drives me crazy, but that’s on me.
She has now migrated from the three fabulous beds to a spot beside the couch on the new rug. She doesn’t quit trying, but I give up asking her to return to her bed after a while; she knows how long I last in striving to be a neatnik—hint: it’s about two days.
Within a week, she will find other chinks in the new house armor, and she will slink onto the couch once or twice. After that, she will again become the grand dame of the ranch, and we will return to homeostasis. The dog, on the couch, or any rug she wants.
So, Ellie is happy because she already knows how this will end.
That’s what the dog does.
It’s like a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table at dinner, not surprising, just comfortably there.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
*Thank you for your support for the writing. Those of you who are regular providers through BUYMEACOFFEE keep this train a rolling forward. It is always appreciated, and your generosity humbles me. tc