Mowin' Lawns and Old Dogs Redux

This afternoon, I mowed the lawn for the first time this year. I seem to be able to let my mind just wander better when I'm mowing than any other time. I really, really miss Abby. Abby was my big, old black Lab. She died about 1 1/2 years ago. I loved her more than I have ever loved anything on earth that wasn't human (and loved her a lot more than most humans that I know.) Outside of work and church, Abby went almost everywhere with me. She would have done those two things two had I only invited her. When I mowed the lawn, she would plod along behind me, patiently getting out of the way when I made turns, until the heat of the day got to her. At that point, she would go lay in the shade and watch every step I took. If I disappeared around a corner, you could bet that she would be up and following, just to be sure I didn't get away from her. She was my dog and I was her human. She loved me unconditionally. I love Sara and she loves me, but there are conditions. We expect each other to be faithful to our wedding vows. Abby and I didn't need vows. I could no more have hit her or starved her than I could take a couple of running steps and bound into the sky flying. Abby protected me. She never barked unless someone she didn't know tried to come into the house. Even then, it wasn't so much a bark as a very deep growl and a charge at the invader. I've seen people back out of the house twice as fast as they came in frontwards. Whenever we drove somewhere, she either carefully watched out for other traffic or slept with that big head on my lap, trusting me to take care of her. She feared only thunder. If a thunder storm came, it was my job to open the door to the bedroom closet, where she would stay until the storm passed. If you really love dogs, you know you have to be able to accept some things about them. Dogs smell like dogs. That shouldn't surprise anyone. Horses smell like horses and, I suspect, that elephants smell like elephants. Sure your house is going to smell like a dog lives there. I much more like the idea of visiting a house that smells like a dog than visiting one where the lady of the house wears a gallon of some awful perfume each day or the man of the house wants to smell like he just bathed in musk. Dogs poop and pee. So do I, but I was taught at an early age to use the bathroom. I believe that, had I been able to teach Abby to use the toilet, she would have done it just to please me. Sure dogs can be taught to use the yard and that brings on some other problems, but farm kids learn early on to watch their step. Maybe that's an art that city folks ought to practice as well. To tell you the truth, I believe that I would rather have to wash dog poop off of my sneakers than to try to get someone's big, old wad of gum unstuck from the bottom of the same shoes. Dogs shed. Abby was black and she seemed to be shedding all the time. Our carpet always had a black sorta tint to it. Well, Sara and I shed too. The difference is that we know how to clean up behind ourselves. When Abby died, Sara wanted to know why I even wanted another dog. There are lots of reasons I could have used, but what I told her was that, when she started meeting me at the back door, dressed in the suit she was born in, jumping up and down for joy at seeing me, I might not want a dog so badly. We went out and found Pepper. Pepper is my dog now and I'm mostly hers. Pepper is a miniature poodle. Poodles don't shed, which takes care of one of Sara's biggest complaints about Abby. Another truism: big dog, big poop; little dog, little poop. We don't have to be nearly as careful where we walk when we go out into the back yard. We've had Pepper for several months now and we are still getting used to each other. Pepper likes to be with me. When I take a nap, she will be right there at the foot of the bed and almost nothing will make her move. On the other hand, when Sara and I are sitting in the den reading or watching TV, Pepper will only sit with Sara. Maybe Sara's lap is softer. Pepper barks. She doesn't bark a whole lot, but neighborhood dogs barking will set her off. Also, when anyone comes to the door (including me!) she runs down the hallway away from them and barks. None of that jumping for joy at the back door for her - probably beneath her dignity. I'm trying to teach her to play rough with me, but somehow it isn't the same wrestling with a 12 pound poodle as it was wrestling with a 100 pound lab. I'm hoping to teach her, this summer, to want to ride with me everywhere and to want to go anytime the truck door opens. For now, I'm just happy having her here. Will Rogers once said, "If dogs don't go to heaven, then when I die, I want to go where they do!" I've sent a few dogs that I've loved dearly on ahead of me. I just hope that they are all there waiting and jumping up and down with joy when I finally make it home.