Guest Blogger #24
I asked a lot of different people to blog these past few weeks, and somehow, when I started to get a schedule arranged, I decided to make the last seven days "Family Week."
There's still a blank, though, one day that remains empty, which I've pushed down the schedule as much as I can push, so either I need to be a better family member or else write something myself. Or else use both of Mom's pieces, which I may very well do.
Still, family is family, and you can't pick 'em unless sometimes you can, and one time we did.
We are a strange foursome. The girl is gone. The boy is getting older, as is the woman and (gasp!) me, and the dog.
I wanted to give him a cute name. Actually, I didn't want him, but I acquiesced. But years before "Lord of the Rings" made cinema history, Julie and Beth and John decided that "Strider" would be his name. He may have another opinion on this (apparently he does), but he's part of our family now, so I decided he should be up first. We share a house, after all, and a basement, and occasionally a moment, but it's his story. I just type.
Peoples
By Strider
I do what I'm told, you know. It's the nature of the beast. So when The Man asked me for this, I had to say yes.
Not that I can't be rebellious, you understand, but I pick my moments. Usually it comes when The People sleep past my breakfast time. I make a few noises. Sometimes I breathe right in their faces (that usually gets them going for some reason, Dog knows why). Sometimes I throw up, although that's sort of a last resort. Still, I can pretty much throw up at will. It's a gift.
I remember very little of when I first met The People. I was young, after all, just separated from my mother. I remember wanting to bite a lot, which The People seemed to not understand. People, people. I bite, therefore I am, but I stopped eventually. You can only take so much grief before you give up.
I'm a Sheltie, a Shetland sheepdog. I'm a distant cousin to those steroid-pumped creatures you call "collies." Puh-leese. Who FEEDS them? I mean, seriously: If Timmy fell in the well, I'm pretty sure it's because Lassie pushed him out of the way over a plate of food. Maybe by accident, maybe not.
My first memories are of The Lady. She talked nice. She brushed me. She spoke softly. She tried to take me to a "dog training" class for a while, but that didn't last long, thank Dog (what am I, a Marine? My training is in MY GENES, thank you very much. You "heel." Give me a break).
But I remember The Man. I didn't think he liked me. In fact, I was sure of it. I mean, he was nice enough. He stroked me, took me outside to "do my business" (and yeah, can we find another euphenism? It gets old), and seemed to tolerate me, but then one day when I was a pup The Lady left for a long time (about two months in dog years), and I got a little anxious. She'd never been away like this. So I guess I acted out a bit, woke him up early, conveniently "forgot" where I was supposed to do my business, etc., and after getting used to being called "Strider" (I would have preferred "Maurice," but People usually don't ask us) I began to realize he was referring to me by another name. A longer one.
One that began with "dumb" and ended with "dog," and in the middle was another word that I can't remember because it's not really used a lot in this house so I didn't retain it, but it didn't sound nice.
The Lady Pup and the Man Pup were okay, too. They were nice to me, and usually laughed when I tried to herd them (trust me: with People, even Pup People, it ain't happenin'. I have no idea how the big People do it). But The Man and I seemed destined for a draw.
Let me tell you about The Man. He makes some amazing noises when he sleeps. Sometimes the floor shakes when he walks. He has a loud bark sometimes, such as when I politely ask him to go outside and he opens the door and I start to think it over. Hear "GO!" from the man and you will think you are in the presence of something awesome, I swear to Dog.
And he's always here. In the mornings, he wakes up (sometimes with help from Strider Breath) and wanders to The Colder Place, which is down "The Stairs," where he shuts the door. I've tried to go in there a few times, but he shoos me away. So I usually sit outside his door. It's comfortable there, and I can hear a tapping sound that lets me know he's in there.
Occasionally he'll leave his place, see me outside the door, and stroke my forehead. He's a good stroker, but he doesn't like to be licked. I can live with that, although I don't understand. Who doesn't like to be licked. People are strange.
There was one day, though, when he told me The Secret, that I finally understood. He's not a bad People at all, you know. Maybe we just didn't understand each other.
It was a long time ago, maybe 10 years (yes, I'm talking in Dog Years. Do the math). We were alone in the house. He came into the front room, where I usually sit on "the soft place I need to jump on" and he began to bark in a strange way.
I've heard this People barking before. The Lady has done it. The Pups have even done it, but I never heard it from The Man before. It was a different bark for him, and something was wrong.
It's not a pleasant bark. It's a bark that sounds a lot like The Other Dog, the one who lives two yards away, who barks like this when his People leave him alone, but worse. Water comes out of The People's eyes when they bark like this. They bark as though someone has forgotten to fill their food dish, or else someone who used to fill it isn't filling it anymore, and maybe won't ever again. It's a sad bark.
Something bad had happened to The Man.
I didn't know what to do. I stared, looking for an answer, waiting for a normal bark, but he just made this sound and the water came out and I curled on the floor, perplexed. And then I knew.
I jumped up on the soft space, put my head on his paw, and looked into his eyes. And I licked. Only once, I swear.
And he stroked my head, and stopped barking, and stopped the water, and bent down and told me The Secret, then and there.
So I watch The Man now. And I wait for him, sometimes, when he goes away. Usually I sit by his door a lot, trying to keep his smell (The Lady says that sometimes you can smell him a mile off, but I have no idea what a mile is; I usually have no problem, though). I watch him carefully. I wait for his touch, but mostly I wish no more sad barks, not today, not tomorrow. And so far, so good.
The People talk about "love." I don't understand; I'm sorry. English is my second language, after all. I don't know from love. I just know The People belong to me, and I to them, and that's the way it should be.
And I'm halfway through my life, at best. I'm slower now. I can't jump as high, or bark as loud, or lick as often, or eat as much (I'm NOT talking about pizza; don't be dumb). But I know the secret, now, because The Man told me, one night, long ago, with sad barking and watering eyes and all. It makes me happier, somehow. He leaned over, rubbed my forehead, and said,
"You are the BEST dog."
I am, I know now. Because he said so.
9:21:26 AM 
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