Of dogs and people

I've had the pleasure of re-reading Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men with my youngest son. He's only just turned 12, and I know I won't have many moments like this left with him. (It's been years since the oldest has snuggled up to me to read To Kill a Mockingbird.) Both books have their uncomfortable moments: if you've read the books, you know the word I'm talking about. It did give us a good opportunity to talk about racism and how language has been used to diminish and demoralize people. Ultimately, both stories are simply wonderful.

Next, we borrowed the dvd from our local library and watched it as a family. TeenGuy abandoned the Xbox to sit with us. I expected I'd be in tears at the end of the film, when George has to make a painful decision: track Lenny down and turn him in to the authorities (placing him in a situation that he cannot comprehend and leaving him at the mercy of untold cruelties), or put a gun to Lenny's head and pull the trigger.

What got me, however, was the actor who played Candy, the one-handed ranch worker. The morning after his dog is shot by Carlson, Candy is outside feeding the chickens. He knows his dog is dead. After all, he agreed that it was time: the dog was old, he smelled, he was sick and in pain. Still, out of habit, he looks around for the fellow.

That broke my heart. It reminded me of how lost I felt when we had to put our little mutt Heidi to sleep. In unguarded moments I looked for her. Rationally, I knew she was dead. I was there when the vet made the injection. But I longed for her presence, against all rationality. I still do.

So, I broke into sobs and had to leave the room for awhile. The menfolk waited patiently. And at the end of the movie, I sat dry-eyed while Sport buried his head into my neck, crying silently at the loss of innocent Lenny.

How I turned my dog into a tittie baby

Last week I was out in the garden, trying to bring some semblance of order into Hell Corner -- the long-neglected northeast side of our yard. I've managed to ignore and stall getting to it because I hate pulling grass, and grass has jumped from the yard into this particular flowerbed and invaded with a vengeance.

I had some pretty good excuses: the mosquitoes were bad and I was out of OFF, I'd worn out my last pair of gardening gloves, and we've been having something like a solid month of 100+ days. But an unexpected cool front came in and I trudged out, bringing Bella along for company.

Our previous dog was a little lady, who'd sit next to me and quietly watch flitting butterflies. Bella, however, is no lady. As I kneeled and yanked the runners from the ground, she'd trot over with her toys and nudge me, wanting me to play. I kept shooing her away, but she's relentless. Each time I pushed her away, she came back for more abuse. Finally, I took her out front and leashed her to a tree. The boys were practicing their soccer skills, and I figured she'd be fine out there with them.

Would you believe that dopey dog barked for me the whole time? She wasn't interested in watching the boys play ball. She wanted to be off that leash and in the backyard. The boys finally got tired of her noise and released her. She promptly ran to the back fence to bark for my attention. I finally gave up and took her in the house with me.

I added it all up: she follows me everywhere I go in the house, waits outside my door when I take a nap, jumps on the couch to cuddle with me, and basically is attached to me at the ankles. I've turned her into a tittie baby, and I didn't even try.

I guess my next step will be dressing her up and carrying her around in a purse.