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.