He holds my heart in his tiny, white teeth.
My friends now wear the same face that I wear when they tell me about their children. “Uh-huh. That is smart.” I have taught him him one trick: when he sits on my lap, I say, “What do sweet boys do?” and he lays his head on my shoulder.
When he wants a snuggle, he taps me on the chest with one paw and then pets his own ear. He sleeps behind my knees. He follows me from room to room. He insists upon sitting on my lap when I’m on the toilet. Sometimes, I find him napping in the bed, under the blankets except for his head, which is on the pillow – like a person.
He is the most public of conversation pieces.
As a dog owner I am beginning to realize that I must become a better neighbor. In the days before dog ownership I could roam my neighborhood in peace, head down, headphones on, frosty glare ready to ward off those foolhardy enough to try any shenanigans of congeniality with me.
Now I find myself the custodian of ten pounds of canine feistiness, a helplessly genial POW in a gulag of neighborly civility.I call him Boo Boo, and Mr. Smarty No-Pants, and The Feisty Mister.
He is my external, internal alarm clock. He likes to start his day at six.
He likes to eat almost anything, but dog food. He loves Pad Thai and licorice, which he buries like bones under the sofa cushion. He won’t say no to a rosemary-and-olive-oil Triscuit, but would rather eat paper napkins than dog biscuits.
He patrols the perimeter of the dining table, on his hind feet, at every meal. He chews on the living room throw pillows, but only to remind me that I’ve been on the phone too long.
He stands guard, just outside the tub, when I shower – take that Norman Bates.
When he talks to me, it sounds a little like the grownups in Peanuts cartoons. When I cry, he licks the salt from my face, as if it could tell him how to make it all better.
