I just got back from closing on my house. Finally. It was supposed to happen last Tuesday, but the people couldn't get their acts together. Now, 10 days later, it is rather anticlimactic. I've already been sad about the passing of my first house, and now I'm just glad it's over and done. Plus, I get to go pick up that check this afternoon, and that will take the sting off for sure.
Today, I give you (and by you, I mean KimmieRo) gratuitous pictures of my little Pupstar (not her real name - we use pseudonyms here for goodness sakes). She is 11 years old, and by all practical reasoning, I believe her to be an American Eskimo mix. She is the light of my life, and the 2 of us are completely codependent. She also loves her pink spikey football almost as much as she loves me.
She just knows Papa is going to drop some cookie dough.
Playing fetch with the pink spikey football.
I have lost count as to how many pink spikey footballs I have purchased in the last 11 years. And they have to be pink. She will not fetch any other color.
This is where she likes to hang out while I'm teaching.
I think about this dog a lot. She has been with me since I was a senior in college. Well, the second year that I was a senior in college (save the smirks, people). As a puppy, she would accompany me into the music building to the composition lab, the practice rooms, and even to my work study in the music office. She has been the constant in my adult life. She knows when I am pregnant even before I do and makes it her job to sit or lay by the belly. She loves Guy almost as much as I do. Sometimes, I'm even jealous of the attention she gives him, but in the end, I'm delighted that she loves our family. She loves Lovely too, following her up to bed for the ritual "tucking in" with her father.
The first time my momma met Guy, she said to him in the course of their conversation, "You know that dog is going to be a problem, don't you? When she dies, Canape is going to be a wreck." She is not wrong.
Pupstar and I have been through it all. Now, I see her age showing in her eyes. I hear her age in her hips as they pop when we walk uphill. I smell her age with every bomb that dog drops after a cookie or a meal. Man, can she clear a room.
The vet says she looks great for her age. She isn't overweight, and we give her enough exercise. This dog has had her teeth cleaned more often that I have. And yet, I find myself worrying about every click in her hip, every extra sip of water that she takes, and counting how many times she has to go out a day. I want so badly to take the best care of my best friend even though she can't tell me exactly how to do that.
At the end of the day, I find myself wondering if that is at all how it feels when you are a mom.
