Dog Days

My Aunt Jean once said that when she dies, she wants to be reincarnated as one of my dogs. I’ll admit that I’m one of those people who treats my pups like family… they have always been my ‘kids’. I don’t understand people who get a dog only to leave it tied up outside, ignored and lonely. I have always spoiled mine; I play with them and hug on them, and in return, I get the sloppy, unconditional love that only dogs (and slightly badly behaved ones at that) can provide… the big, paws-on-your-shoulders-tongue-from-chin-to-forehead sort of love. I know it’s not for everyone, but I thrive on it. Sundance (a.k.a. ‘My BOY’) loves me that way… he actually smiles when I get home, he tackles me (and sometimes knocks me down) with hugs at the park, he rides in the car with his head on my shoulder, and he sits beside me when I’m lonely, assuring me that for as long as he lives, I’ll always have someone for whom I am exactly… right. And that’s big.

I am not, however, one of those freaky people who believes my dog is human; who sets a place for him at the table (though my mother has threatened to do it for my moochie pooch); who carries him around in a purse (if I could lift him, that is) or pushes him in a stroller. I know he’s a dog, not a person or a baby. This evening, though, I met one of those freaky people… and I SO wish I’d had my camera…

I took Sundance for a little walk after dinner. It was raining (as it has done every day at dinnertime for the past week or so) and at the park down the street, we met a woman and her dog. Well, I think it was a dog. It had 4 legs and fur and it barked… sort of… it yapped, but in a barky way. Yes, I’m sure it was a dog(ish sort of animal). Now, small, yappy, dog-ish creatures are not that unusual, certainly… however, small, yappy, dog-ish creatures who are dressed exactly like their owners… that’s a sight you don’t often see. But both the woman and her dog were wearing raincoats, rain hats, and… wait for it… rain boots. Galoshes. Wellies. BOOTS. I was stunned. I think Sundance was, too, because instead of his usual, ‘Get the Hell out of MY park’ bark, he just looked at the dog and then up at me, his eyes pleading, as if to say, “Please, please, don’t EVER do that to me!” I patted his head, said, “Don’t worry, Bubby, I’d drown myself first,” and then I let him off his leash to plow through every puddle he could find, muddy paw prints notwithstanding.