My frenzy,,
You may have noticed a fourth slow-feed dog bowl at the supper table lately. And no, we aren’t getting a third pup — yet (though the notion draws ever nearer).
You’ve got a roommate for the next few weeks. Mochi’s mom landed an acting gig for a few weeks, so we’re pup sitting this month. Which brings the poundage in the household to at least 180, dwarfing my own.
And you wanna know something? I love it. I guess there’s no need to pretend I’m NOT that dog guy.
I’ve come to calling you the triplets: three shades of lab/pit brown that will play triangular tug-of-war with the same rope, share wet food and sleep on the same single pad that nursed my back last year.
You all hop in the creamsicle hatchback, wrestling over squeak balls and whimpering to greet any passing canine. I should be so warm-hearted.
More miraculously, even your pettiness charms.
What can be more beautiful than a jealous dog? One that bodies into you so closely it could be a vital organ? After dinner and some backyard fetching, I’ll drop to the cot and try to distribute two arms to three bodies evenly, though I know it’s never enough.
When I return from another room, you cluster at the door like I FINALLY showed up for a staff meeting I’d called hours earlier.
If it sounds like I’m complaining, you should know: This is a lot more doable than I thought. Sixty pounds may be too much for this patch dirt. But 20? Ten? A man gets to thinking.
Until then, I’d ask you to make some home space for the rest of March. But when it comes to your hearts, I guess it’s never cramped.
