It’s Not All Mary Poppins

At least they don’t shed

Grace has a new dog! Not a puppy, but a large, fluffy, golden-retriever mix. He’s three years old, and absolutely gorgeous. Got the wide, friendly golden face, and the easy-going disposition. They’ve had him a week.

Two days after his arrival in their home, this game started happening. That green mesh ball is one of Daisy’s dog toys. Tied to it is one of the laces from our lacing cards. But really? It is not a ball and a lace! Silly, silly people.

It is a DOG on a LEASH. Of course.

It follows her everywhere, it comes when it’s called. (A quick jerk on the lace leash ensures prompt arrival.) And it has an EVEN MORE IMPORTANT doggie feature!

Let’s look more closely. See, inside the ball? See that slip of paper? That slip of paper which Grace has carefully coloured, then torn to the right size? That slip of paper that fits inside the ball, but will sometimes, particularly when the doggie is running, it will sometimes fall out?

That is not a slip of paper! Silly, silly people!

That is POO. Because when you take them for walks, doggies POO!!! Really!

And then, being the responsible dog-mommy that she is, Grace picks up the poo. With another piece of paper that she has carefully folded, to be the “poop bag”.

This game is such fun! Mary laughs and laughs and laughs every time Grace plays it. Grace, and now Jazz, who, like any self-respecting toddler, will play any game that gets an adult’s so-rapt and joyous attention.

They make poo so they can pick it up. Hee.

Now I’m thinking. We’re out of playdough. Perhaps the next batch I cook up should be … brown?

September 25, 2012 Posted by | Grace, the cuteness! | , , | 5 Comments

It’s that 1% that gets you

The husband is out of town for a few days this week, and thus I am a single doggy parent. The teens? They are not so much work.

Teens certainly don’t have me out the door at six for a 45-minute walk before my first clients arrive. Not that my first clients arrive at 6:45. I know there are caregivers out there who start at 6:30 or even earlier, God love’em, but I’m not of their ilk. I am a morning person: this is why I like to savour some of it for myself.

Walking the dog is, in fact, 99% pure pleasure, particularly on a morning when the mist is rising off the plate-glass river, the swans regal as they drift by, the air a caressing blanket, soft, warm, fresh. The dog neither drifts nor caresses. She bounds, leaping with the pure joy of being alive — and then freezing, stock-still, as she spots a squirrel. She lives in never-dying hope of catching one of those things.

(It will never, ever die now that she actually has caught one of those things. Thankfully, not on my watch.)

She bounces into the long grass on the verge of the river, chomping madly. I do not know why some mornings are grass mornings, why the One Thing in the World she craves more than anything else is salad, plucked fresh from the riverbank, dressed with dew.

I particularly do not know this five minutes later, when we arrive at the racing-around-the-field-with-other-dogs part of our outing, and she bombs into the middle of the field … and horks the whole thing up again.

Well, not quite the whole thing. The rest she saved for the dining room. An moist heap of pureed greens, a long greenish puddle oozing away from it on one side, along the nothing-is-100%-true-in-a-century-old-house floor.

As I said, 99% pure pleasure.

August 11, 2009 Posted by | random and odd | , , , , | 4 Comments