[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]
I carefully observe my little dog, Riley, trying to figure out how her brain allocates its resources.
It’s around 50 percent food and treats, 25 percent pee, 15 percent poop, 5 percent guarding her territory from any bicyclist or cat that wanders past, and 5 percent a sense of affection for the apes she allows to love her on her terms.
That deal’s OK with me, but I try not to fool myself that it’s more than it is.
I often recall my writer friend Mike Peterson’s observation that a dog’s extraordinary sense of smell must make the world feel like being on psychedelics all the time. Riley and I have totally different experiences walking around the block.
I got one insight into Riley’s mind a few years ago, when I helped a neighbor close her broken garage door. My fingertips momentarily got caught between the hinged panels, and I let out a yelp before yanking them free. From a couple hundred feet away, Riley rocketed down the street like a fur-covered torpedo, ready to fight demons by my side.
“I’ve got your back, boss!”
That kind of courage and loyalty earns a lifetime of unrequited belly rubs.
I do tell Riley how much I appreciate her many contributions to the team. Dogs are dogs and people are people, and anthropomorphizing doesn’t do either of us any favors. But as inscrutable as her mind is, I’m certain we’d both fight fiercely for our pack. I’ve got your back too, pal.
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NOTE FROM BRIAN: I wrote this essay a while ago and randomly assigned it to post today; it is a very sad coincidence that Riley died last week following a bout of congestive heart failure. She was a month shy of 13. Riley was a terrier mutt that someone had left tied to a bus stop when she was a pup, and we gave her the best home and family any dog could have had.
My wife, Karen, read today’s essay and told me to edit it to read, “Riley devoted 50 percent of her brain to loving her Mom.” That sounds about right, if not low.
George Carlin said that getting a pet means "you are purchasing a small tragedy," and here we are. For being such a small dog, she leaves an enormous hole.
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