My sumkinda,
You are hardly a teen, yet already you are sassing back, wagging ass in front of boys and running with a boisterous, occasionally aggressive gang.
I could not be prouder.
I see you and think: Were you ever young? If so, when? Your granny met you for the first time and exclaimed “SHE’S a puppy?” You seemed to take no offense: You slept outside her door nightly, and licked her toes like Jesus with a foot fetish.
When she and your Aunt Caroline returned home, you reclaimed your throne as Jadie, Queen of Rubio, matron of House Bowles. Your voice has already settled into a deep baritone, and you patrol these grounds as if you are fierce. A stranger looking in would see you as trouble, a fetching look I hope you never lose.
Of course, any semblance of aggression is out the door the moment you are, and the glow of being new overtakes you. Your tail, as powerful as Indy’s whip, cannot help but shake your ass as if you are spasming a samba, undertowing any visage of menace.
We have settled into a walk routine in our double cul-de-sac neighborhood. The stroll within the parenthesis is brief, but you literally force me to stop and smell the roses. And turds. You have found your favorite shrubbery, which you check religiously for updates: Max got fixed and says it’s great!; Bella had octuplets and says it’s great! and she’ll do better next time; Daisy has the runs and says it’s great!
But there’s nothing about your puppyhood I enjoy more than watching you lose your shit over your thrice-weekly dog run. Every morning, you stare out the front window, awaiting The Woofpack, your delirious gang of canine pals who trample the Victory Dog Park.
They arrive in a minivan, a carpool of slobber and fur and hooting and whooping that joyously announce their arrival. If you’re not awake by the time The Woofpack arrive, you will be by the time they leave.
That’s because you, sweet girl, must double the decibel level with your booming good morning bellow. Bouncing off plaster and hardwood, your school day seems to rattle the windows and test my home’s tensile strengths. But it is glorious thunder, and in truth I envy your mile-long ride to the park.
What a joyous commute that must be! I can only imagine the conversations. Yay, traffic! Yay, congestion! Yay, farting! I smile every time I think about it.
Which would include my own occasional commute. All I need do is think of you if I find myself on the bumper grind, and imagine what you would remind: Why are you anxious? You’re sitting in a recliner, listening to your favorite music, sipping your favorite drink, trying to get home to do the same thing. And it will settle me.
I’m even flirting with the idea of taking you by bike to Lake Balboa, though I’m pretty sure you’d have me dunked within minutes of seeing the swans. Still, it’s tempting.
See what you’ve done? You’ve turned me into a selective hitchhiker, child: Only your outlook on life moves my wheels forward.
