OT Story - Me and my shadow

Velcro dogs. Gotta love them. We have three dogs, and two of them are
velcro dogs. One of them's my 65 pound dobie girl; the other is my 60
pound fuzzy dog.

A fellow dog lover forwarded the "letter to the dogs" below:

Dear Dogs,

When I say to move, it means go someplace else, not switch positions with
each other so there are still two dogs in the way.

The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food. The other
dishes are mine and contain my food. Please note, placing a paw print in the
middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food
and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Beating me
to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help, because I fall
faster than you can run.

I cannot buy anything bigger than a king size bed. I am very sorry about
that. Do not think I will continue to sleep on the couch to ensure your
comfort. Look at videos of dogs sleeping; they can actually curl up in a
ball. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other stretched out
to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out
and having tongues hanging out the other end to maximize space used is
nothing but doggy sarcasm.

My compact discs are not miniature Frisbees.

For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom. If by some
miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not
necessary to claw, whine, try to turn the knob, or get your paw under the
edge and try to pull the door open. I must exit through the same door I
entered. In addition, I have been using bathrooms for years; canine
attendance is not mandatory.

The proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dog's butt. I cannot
stress this enough. It would be such a simple change for you.





--
This is a post-only address.
Send replies to e_lewis AT bellsouth DOT net
(with the obvious corrections)
"Kathy N-V" wrote in message
.com...
When DD was in Germany, her friends kept coming by, "In case I was
lonely."
I appreciated seeing them, but there was no chance of my being lonely.
None
whatsoever.

Why? Because it's hard to get lonely when you're _never alone._ In my
case,
I have a small dog with a morbid fear of being away from me. She's also
terrified of luggage, aluminum foil, and thunderstorms, and the only
"cure"
is to be with me, constantly - no matter what. The husband isn't good
enough, nor is the child; just me and only me, all the time, 24/7.

I can't put my feet down while I'm at my desk, because there's a little
dog
there. I have an escort to the bathroom, who, when banished from the
room,
lies across the doorway so I can't escape. I really don't want to be on
the
toilet with those huge brown eyes staring at me. Besides, there's only
one
way out, and I've been finding my way out of the bathroom for years, even
without assistance. Imagine that.

When I sleep, the little dog follows me into the bedroom and circles
around
on her pillow three times before lying down. Never twice, never four
times,
always three times, while she's staring at me mistrustfully, as if I might
escape during the twirling ritual. Only when she hears the noise of the
CPAP
machine does she allow herself to relax. (But if I need to use the toilet
in
the night, the whole escort and twirling ritual needs to start all over
again)
I don't allow the little dog in the room while we eat, so she lies outside
the kitchen door, whining quietly with every exhale. The second we start
gathering the plates to clear the table, guess who races right back to my
left ankle? There are days when I curse the fact I taught this dog to
heel.

Beading is no different. If I'm in the recliner, she's under the
footrest -
peering out to make sure that no one goes near Mama. (Or worse, that Mama
escapes without her little dog) I'm in a regular chair, beading at the
table, guess who's right there? I strongly suspect that the Secret Service
is
far less vigilant in watching the president or visiting heads of state.

The worst though, is when I (egads!) leave the house. That's not very
often,
because I'm not well enough to go out very often. As soon as I put on
shoes,
the little dog visibly panics. By the time I have my purse, Sophie is
trying
to block the back door to keep me from leaving. Even though I'm certainly
not in top physical condition, I do manage to get by the 12 lb. dog
without a
lot of trouble.

Sophie's other problem is that she doesn't always realize that if I leave
the
house, I'm not there. Sounds pretty basic, but she always thinks that
even
though she tried to block me from leaving, and she cried as I locked the
door, she might find me with a thorough search. Unfortunately for us,
it's
air conditioning season, and her opening of doors wastes lots of power.

The doors are firmly shut and latched, and I've never actually seen her
open
one (because I'm always on the side of the door where she wants to be) My
family members tell me that she head butts the door repeatedly in an
upward
motion, to unlatch the door, then shoves her body to push the door open.
If
only she could shut doors as well as she opens them.

Tonight I decided I'd like a little privacy while I shower, monster that I
am. I ignored the frantic little bumps and whines at the bathroom door,
hoping she'd get the hint and go away. Fat chance. Next thing I knew,
the
little dog had unlatched the door, slammed it back on its hinges (she must
have taken a running leap to do that) and was attempting to join me in
the
shower.

I think not.

Sophie's now sulking in the living room while I am all of ten feet away,
writing this post. I'm absolutely sure that the moment I open the door to
the den, she's going to be right there, making sure that the bogeymen
don't
come to get me.

I can imagine Sophie's idea of a perfect life: I get one of those baby
carriers that you wear, and use the dog as a garment for the rest of my
life.
Unfortunately for her, that's just not gonna happen.

Kathy N-V

Okay. This had me on the FLOOR.

Velcro dogs. Gotta love them.
Dear Dogs,

When I say to move, it means go someplace else, not switch positions with
each other so there are still two dogs in the way.

The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food. The other
dishes are mine and contain my food. Please note, placing a paw print in the
middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food
and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Beating me
to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help, because I fall
~~snipped 4BW~~
~~
Sooz
-------
Let the beauty we love be what we do. --Rumi
I'm not a hamster, and life's not a wheel. --Sooz
~ Dr. Sooz's Bead Links
http://airandearth.netfirms.com/soozlinkslist.html

I may love them, in the abstract, but I also step on them. And neither
of us likes that outcome.

A member of the women's circle I joined when I got to Portland has
*three*, all old and a bit impaired in the senses, and they seem to
have no sense of self-preservation. You gotta watch your feet all the
time. And sometimes it doesn't help to _watch- cuz they don't give you
anywhere to step, and crowd you right off them. Your feet, that is.
Onto -their- feet.

Deirdre

On Mon, 11 Aug 2003 09:43:21 -0400, "EL"
wrote:

Velcro dogs. Gotta love them.