Old dogs and new dogs

Chris writes again about Zeke. Zeke is getting on in the years, and it's hard for him to get around. He reminds me of Bradford, the shepherd mix around our house when I was growing up. Bradford also had difficulty getting around, near the end of his life, years after me and the rest of the kids had moved out. It wasn't easy for him, but his age and his arthritic hips must have reminded my father of his own age and arthritic hips, and he was taken care of, as best my parents could.

Yesterday was my wife's birthday. My wife has been jonesing for a dog for awhile, despite never having had one. I've been against it: too many creature in the house already, each of whom requires their own love and affection. I don't know whether it's a good idea, but I let her go to the humane society on Saturday, "just to take a look". Somehow, though, I think I knew that you don't go just to take a look. By evening we'd elbowed away her other suitors, brought her home, black lab mix, still a pound puppy at one year old. Sheba, she's been renamed. A new name for a new life, with a new family. She must have had an old life, but she can't tell us what it was like. She's still making friends with the cats and the children, still adapting herself to our life, and adapting our lives to her. This afternoon she sat and listened while I played guitar badly. I wanted to tie a red bandanna around her neck, grow facial hair, and hang out in parks, strumming in the summer sun. I was against it, but I guess we're dog people now.