Speaking In Tongues

My dogs speak to me.

No, to answer your question, I haven't finally been alone long enough for the crazy to start coming out in public. (Hang on a second, my kettle's ringing.) Obviously dogs can communicate, they just don't speak English. Doy.

Unless I do the voices.

Let me just tell you, Jesse may look like a lady but she swears like a drunken sailor after three days of shore leave, stuck in traffic, late to report for duty, and worried she forgot her prescription ointment back at the hotel. 

Especially when the cat steals the sunbeam.

Meeker has his own basket of troubles. He misses Husband but there's no clutter so he can't build a Meeker-Pile. His walk schedule is all off because I am not a chipper, early-rising robot who likes to wander the neighbourhood before sunrise. The worst is the daily betrayal of breakfast time, when I offer pats but not toast. This is obviously wearing on his little soul, as evidenced by the increasing number of times I have awakened in the night to find him sitting over me, staring, and quietly making a list of all the organs he can sell on the black market.

In truth, our furry family members are very good company, and, though I may anthropomorphize just a teensy bit, they are a reasonable reflection of my current emotional state. We all miss Husband as much as he misses us and he's all alone, which makes it that much harder. So we muddle through days of fetch and walks and try to be patient with each other even when I forget everything while I'm writing, or Jesse hogs the pillows, or Meeker rage-piddles on the basement floor. We've all been there. We have a strong bond that keeps us going, a commitment we all share that will see us through the hard times, no matter how long they may last. We made a promise to each other at the very start of this difficult time...

...as long as we draw breath, Fritti will never nap unpestered.


There is no psychiatrist in the world better than a dog licking your face. ~ Bernard Williams (paraphrased)