Tuesday, December 1, 2009


She slides across the soft wooden floor like a fearless five-year-old skier learning to stop at the bottom of the bunny slope. She bounces back to me, the pink squeaky toy in her mouth. 

Squeak. Squeak. Sqeeeak!
It's play time.

She is jumping on the couches and curling my area rugs like the painting of a windy beach. I don't mind. Here she can't run away in a distracted hunt for squirrels, cats or birds. She can't pull her leash to smell every blade of grass and pee like a boy dog on every other mailbox (even though she's been running on empty for miles). She can't hump strangers' dogs and she can't bark at joggers who yell, "That is not o.k."

Here her ears stand when I squeal the words: "Ready to go OUTSIDE?" "Hey Penny, where's that BALL of yours?" and
"wannaa TREAT?"
I ask my dog many questions. Why? You wonder. Because she always responds with a wagging tail.