scribblechic

I have abandoned the fantasy of a clean, unmarked home.  Instead, I overlook the rumpled duvet with lines that conform to the dog’s sleeping shape.  I accept my clothing carries fine strands of dog hair like a name lovingly penned on a child’s garment tag. Tiny scratches from four energetic legs are accidental mementos similar to a toddler’s sticky hand print on glass.  I live in a dog house.

Cursing such inconveniences as dog hair and tiny scratches are done in tones of endearment.  That Dog is, after all, ours.  She is the one that chases through our legs and nuzzles an open palm to be near us.  She roughhouses with my husband and children, but curls into the side of my back in the middle of the night.  She waits patiently each time we leave and greets us with unbridled enthusiasm for no more than returning.

There’s no doubt we’re in trouble, our hearts have gone to the dog.

Tagged: Dog