Welcome Home Bob...Again

Bob came into my life on the Ides of March 2011. I had been stabbed in the back, and at the time wasn’t sure if I would survive. OK, beyond that the Julius Caesar reference just falls apart. Whatever.  At least I know that March 15 is Bob’s and my anniversary.

So, I missed our anniversary this year because I was on a business trip plus a side trip to visit my parents. Which meant that Bob had a rather lengthy stay in purgatory. Kennel operators (at least the ones I frequent!) are wonderful to and for their charges. Still, every dog  is deliriously insanely happy when it turns out that this unexplained exile is not in fact permanent. One may think that shelter dogs exhibit this desperation more acutely, but that does not jibe with my long experience of springing many dogs from jail. Rather, I think it’s a fundamental pack mentality shared by all dogs – Pack Leader Is Back! We Are Saved!

Still, it would be flattering if on his release, Bob focused entirely on me (as Pack Leader) and knocked me over so he could shower me with kennel-biscuit-scented kisses while all the kennel staff and other dog parents looked on approvingly at our bond. I have had dogs that do stroke my ego that way. But, well, that’s not Bob’s style.

I reckon he just knows that exile is bad, something changes, and change can only be good. He enters the lobby where a cacophony assaults his exile-dulled senses.  People! Toys! Dogs! Bags of Food! And oh-for-the-love-of-God-my-freaking-brain-is-going-to-explode. CATS!

I have mentioned earlier that Bob provides quite the upper body workout as this tank of a dog jerks in all directions. Said chaos is documented in the illegible signature on the nearly $500 credit card slip for his foray in exile. OK, we covered all his medical expenses for the year too. And when I line that up relative to my medical deductable, considering both the physical and emotional services he delivers – well, he’s a pretty good deal for the money.

And that signature. My signature. It flows so much more naturally from my hand than did the name I assumed for a decade while I tried to be someone I wasn’t. I realize that even the handwriting in my journal – actually, my 11 volumes of journals that breathed for me these two painful years -- has been so cramped, so scratchy. I too have been in exile.

So Bob, you’ve come back from exile that you did not understand.  I am here to hold you. You are home.

And I am home too. Back to my name. Back to me.

Good Lesson, Thanks Bob.

Countersurfing

Update Sept 12, 2014:
Sad to report that Zeus has crossed the rainbow bridge to the big Kitchen Counter in the Sky.

http://news.yahoo.com/video/world-tallest-dog-dies-age-005028083.html

RIP, Zeus

Admit it, if your dog is big enough, he or she countersurfs. It’s in the dog code of ethics – Go Where Food Is. And kitchen counters are always a good bet. Some better-trained dogs are discreet about it, waiting until you leave the house. But the evidence on the floor is irrefutable – the empty donut box, the licked-clean take out container with teeth marks, and on unfortunate occasions, broken glass.

Bob? Not so discreet. He basically shoves me out of the way while I’m cooking. So I push the food further away from the edge of the counter and shove back. Eventually we reach a truce – which means I put some morsel in his food dish. Despite being an indulgent dog owner, this is the one area I do not budge – no people food fed by hand. Ever. OK, unless I’m training him and using carrots as a reward. (Man, he loves carrots!)

Thing is, Bob was not blessed with the physical attributes that would typically position him as a champion countersurfer. Not like Zeus, the world’s tallest dog from my proud home state of Michigan.

  This guy OWNS the counter. Not a surprise there’s not much on it.

And then there’s Bob who, fully extended, can barely rest his chin on the counter’s edge. And yet, his countersurfing skills are prodigious. If Zeus is the Manute Bol of countersurfing, Bob is Spud Webb. Because he makes use of what he DOES have. Big paws to get a solid grip. Tank-like build to push himself into the best leveraging point (usually by pushing me out of it). And last but not least, a preternaturally long, giraffe-like tongue. He tips his head to the side to maximize his reach and laps toward his target until he finally makes contact and lures it in.

It would be funny if I hadn’t lost so many dinners before I realized that, despite his small stature, nothing within 10 inches of the edge is safe.

Gotta admit, I admire his resourcefulness.

Be Like Bob Lesson: Don’t assume someone’s not good at something just because they don’t appear to be cut out for it.

Be Like Bob Corollary: Use what ya got.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.