Presidio Sentinel San Diego, April
2013
By Laura Walcher
There is that look I get when
Barney doesn’t get the look I
give. But I understand it completely: it means, “NOW what language are you speaking?” That’s what he “said” when I informed
him that he’d be out-ed in this column.
You remember Barney, our bratty
cairn mix? He’d been some wild
puppy, but now that he’s he a senior citizen, he appears to be wiser; except
for certain breeds of fellow canines, and the parking ticket scooters, he picks
his battles pretty thoughtfully. For instance, he ‘s sensibly decided that he
actually can’t catch the squirrel that has a serious head start.
Not that he’s forgiven those
enemies, noted above. His
unrelentingly longing to kill boxers, Dobermans and select others continues
unabated, and of course, the kill-prize of all would still be the
parking-ticket cab. Goin’ bananas
time! His hysteria over a passing
ticket truck is something to behold. When I’ve finally managed to prevail, tho’ we’ve
stopped traffic in every direction, he’s angry, resentful: “Don’t
go thinking I’m going to give up just because you’ve won this time. “
Because he really is just a dog
(oh! forgive me!), his main motivation in life is the relentless search for
sidewalk snacks - - both putrid and on occasion, fresh-ish. Relentlessly, I monitor his
every move, of course, but if I
blink, he’s on it. Then, to his
chagrin, I’m on him, and I
normally win, though it might take wrestling him to the ground. But I do win, and when I do, here’s
what I get: “What is your problem? You
never let me do ANYTHING!”
Our clan comes to visit: “OMG!
OMG! It’s MJ and Isabelle! They’re
here to see me! I love them better that anybody, even HER.” (Read that,
ME.)
Yet the clan’s not always around,
and then, it is my turn. Although
Barney’s grown hard of hearing, he
soars from his slumber and twirls through the halls at my merest move towards
the door. Oh, the desperation! “OMG.
OMG. Am I going with her? CAN I go with her? She won’t leave me, will she? Will she? WILL SHE?”
The
longing in his eyes is palpable.
Not so at Bob Walcher’s merest
move. The dog’s immobile, eyes, half-mast: “HooooooHummmmm,
Why would I want to go anywhere with him?” (While quite clear, this is indeed puzzling, given that Mr.
Walcher feeds him.)
“Y’know, “ says
Barney, “I actually know better than you
how to deal with this issue.”
That’s the look I’m getting.
I’ve put a tin-foil pan down in the tiled floor with the delectable
remains of dinner, but as he tries to get into every corner, it slides around
the kitchen. He picks it up and
transports it to the carpeted living room, where it stops sliding so he can get
each and every scrap, no problem at all.
Mr.
Walcher thinks I’m over-thinking this one.
O.K.
O.K. I’m just sayin’ ….
