I miss the terrier.
I've said that on more than one occasion, both in speech and here in my little journal. She was my companion, my foot warmer, the one who went everywhere with me, the one I figured would eat part of me eventually.
The FMDkids aren't very fond of her, but, then, she stood to inherit most of my vast fortune--all $475.27. And the car.
She's quite happy in Mississippi now, eating grits and an egg every morning, sniffing out the mouse that used potpourri and fake flowers stored under my mother's sofa to make a nest...it's nice to know it was a Martha Stewart kind of a mouse...content in her life. I've missed having a dog around, I'm a dog person, and I've had one almost all of my life.
My friends (and landlords) recently purchased a labradoodle, an interesting breed developed in Australia from mixing, yes, a Lab and a standard Poodle... two very bright breeds of dogs. This gives you a non-shedding long haired dog, great for people who have dog allergies, because they do not set off said allergies. Subsequently, the dogs are in big demand all over the world.
Layla is currently a bundle of golden fur and sharp four month old teeth that like to bite on everything that isn't a dog toy. She knows her way to my door, and feels this is her second home. I have no problem with that, although a good deal of her visits are spent with me yelling, "LAYLA...PUT THAT (fill in the blank) DOWN!"
She gives me huge puppy eyes, and stops chewing on my socks/yarn/slippers long enough to puppy smile, and promptly goes back to that endeavour, pushing aside the costly dog bones she has laying about.
She is crate trained, which is handy. During the day, I will let her out, and she dashes around the yard, growling at birds, rolling in the new grass that is appearing... generally being a good dog.
Recently, she's started to dig. Not so much fun. We've had to bathe her, which she loves... she's part Lab. She's learned digging means a bath... she's not stupid. She runs out, does her business, and heads straight for the dirt in the garden, trying to beat you in your attention to her, in order to roll about, necessitating a trip to the tub.
Today, she discovered so much more there.
Sniffing around the fence, she started to dig frantically, with both J and I calling to her to stop... I elected to go grab her before she became dirty.... she had moss hanging out of her mouth, and I did what any dog owner does, I put my hands in to pull it out... only, it moved. It had a tail, and it was partially chewed, and it moved.
I don't think I've made that kind of a scream or dashed that quickly in years. J and I did the "AH! AH! AH!" dance on the upper deck, as Layla finished her lizard snack, and licked her lips.
Disgusted, I refused to have anything to do with her for the rest of the day....until I wanted to watch television for a bit while everyone was gone.... plus, I did say I'd feed her and put her outside for a bit.
I mumbled to her how naughty she was, letting her out of her crate, patting her head while she lumbered around me, with that cute little smile... the neighbor and I chatted, wondering how large she'd get, his grandson telling me about their dog. Then, that child said, "What does dog have?"
She was back at the hole... pulling something out. I ran over, in the dusk, grabbed her head, pulled at the dark hunk of mud....
....and part of the long dead, dried up rat came away in my hand.
My scream caused her to drop the other part in disgust. Why didn't I see how tasty it would be? Why was I dragging her inside, still making odd human noises, and shuddering? Why did I dump a whole bottle of hand cleaner and then some bleach on my hands, still making those silly noises? Couldn't I see that it was a fun game to pull the dead things out of the ground?
She huffed off to sleep in the corner.... finally creeping up on me, when I'd calmed down, to lie down on the big pillow I was snuggled up against... to let me know she forgave me for taking away her toy outside.
She forgave me....and gave me a great big rat smelling lick on the cheek to prove it.
Our Neville Fact:
Our Neville and Margaret have a secret bank account that the children don't know about. It is to finance their villa in Greece. They plan on going away every November, to drink ouzo, sit on the beach, our Neville will wear shorts, and Margaret plans on not wearing hose. Of course, they've planned this for the last 20 years, and haven't done anything about it. Still, one day, they tell themselves, one day.