I actually bore myself with these wintertime entries, but the show must go on.
By the way, I hope all husbands stayed out of the doghouse this Christmas (thanks, Toni).
Let's talk about my dog, Sadie, who has been climbing the walls due to cabin fever. She spends her time hauling a nasty, saliva-soaked rope-toy back and forth from Cliff to me, laying it in our laps and then stepping back briskly, staring at us in hopes one of us will either toss it or have a tug-of-war with her.
Cliff and I have been pretty faithful in taking our daily walks, but yesterday the weather was too extreme. Going up and down slick hillsides in pouring-down rain isn't safe for a couple of old codgers like us. Try explaining that to Sadie, though. She doesn't get it. Our walk is the highlight of her day. She lives for that walk.
Back at the old house, I kept Sadie on a leash when I took her out, because any time she saw another dog (they run freely in this neighborhood) she was off like a shot, and might not show up again for an hour. Until she returned I'd be frantic with worry, since we live a few hundred feet from the highway where my last dog was hit by a car and killed.
Now that we're farther away from the road, I don't use the leash; I let her out, she does her business, and then comes back to the door. Well, at least 99% of the time she does. It's the 1% that drives me crazy.
Last night when I let her out, she glanced over toward where our nearest dog-neighbors live and was off like a shot into the darkness, with me calling after her in vain. About a half-hour later she came slinking back, tail tucked, head hanging in shame because she knew she'd been bad. I sent her off to her bed, which I moved far away from its usual spot beside my bed. Because I didn't want to look at her for awhile. This morning, of course, she and I are on speaking terms again.
Sadie has way too much energy to be cooped up in a house with a couple in their sixties. She sheds enough fine, short hair to make a new dog once a week. But she's my dog, and I love her. Let's see, she's a medium-sized dog in good health: I figure I have her for at least ten more years; let's face it, she could very easily outlive me!
But if I should outlast Sadie, my next dog will be smaller, and of a non-shedding variety. I'm already studying the various breeds. I really don't care for poodles, they seem uppity to me... although a poodle mix might work.
I recently learned through my blog-reading that Yorkies don't shed, which surprised me; but Mr. Google confirmed the fact. Cliff's brother, Warren, had a Yorkie he dearly loved that was actually with him when he died. On the positive side, they're cute little feisty dogs, and seem very bright. However, I've been told they have sensitive stomachs and are sometimes hard to house-break.
I continue to ponder the situation as I sweep and vacuum handfuls of dog hair from my floors. Only ten more years to go, more or less.
Thank the good Lord for my Dyson.