Frankie is confused. Pleased but really confused. Her daily routine is turned upside down and now she has to think of other activities to bark about.
The human is home ALL the time. That never happens. Frankie cannot properly nap in the morning after walk and breakfast. The human is there, chattering in ways that have nothing to do with treats and tummy rubs.
Walks. They are strange. Frankie loves visiting the dog park and getting pets and love from all the people there. And now the human will not go to the dog park. When we see Jaspar, the world’s greatest French Bulldog, Frankie cannot go near him. Why?
The human says social distancing. Germs are about. What in the world is a germ? Is it like a cat? Whatever it is, it makes the human sad. She cries sometimes for no reason at all. She does not watch her favorite game with the Liverpool thing that makes her dance and sing. Frankie never thought to miss that.
Frankie does not know what social distancing means and does not, will never believe that being alone all the time can be good for dogs or bipeds. Germs be damned.
Especially Frankie’s human who does not get enough love and play as it is.
How is Frankie going to teach the human how to interact with other dogs and humans, teach it the value of the pack if the human refuses all pack behavior? Just a little longer, the human says. It is not forever. The only time a pug understands is forever so what is happening?
It is a mystery. At least the human is here and feeding Frankie every day. There is still an eternity to save my human.
Frankie thinks the writer might be broken. It’s probably because of that stupid cat in the story she keeps reading to Frankie. If the writer would simply kill the cat, everything would be back on track and Frankie could be lazy again. As it now stands, the writer has spent a week crying about something called a query.
Ok, Frankie understands. Point me to the query and the pug will beat it up so that the writer can relax again. This simply must stop. The writer thinks the query is as a bad as a cat and has employed a “workshop” to fix it.
The Liverpool game is over and the writer’s team won. The workshop is over, but the writer still cries and bleats. There are a lot more of these games with the ball and the humans kicking the ball around to watch.
Humans do not know how to play with a ball, not at all. And yet, the writer has abandoned the couch and is back at her desk. The workshop is over, the writer said. Frankie does not understand any of this.
The writer says there is not any more time left to be lazy. What is wrong with her? It is raining. It is cold. The writer is here with Frankie. She should get on the couch and get with the program. Not all this gnashing of teeth and rending of garments.
Frankie is pretty sure that the writer’s query was not so bad that the writer will be hated by everyone. The writer says her hopes and dreams are riding on this query. That’s plain silly. She has a pug. And if the query is that bad, Frankie will make it better. Everyone loves a pug. And they will love the writer because she is Frankie’s human. And now Frankie is exhausted and requires a nap. Until next time.
The world is a perilous place. It is not meant for wimps Life is a precarious thing. None of us get out alive, and we waste precious time hating and vilifying one another.
We have to help each other. Most often, we hinder one another with that little devil that lives in all of us telling us the people over there are to blame for all our troubles.
Dogs stomp that voice out. There is something in the eyes of a dog that wishes so much to please, to be able to go help the people over there. Dogs have a courage unmatched by the boldest of imaginary super heroes.
A dog’s love and courage is real, not a thing of comics and fairy tales. It comes with no judgment, no blame, no questions. All are worthy of saving. So if you are lost, rescue a dog. One day that animal may one day rescue you.
My daughter is getting a kitten. That is a valid decision. She lives in New York City in a tiny little box, and she does not have the time to give a dog the proper care. A cat doesn’t really need humans. It likes us to serve it – feed it, keep its environment tidy, and pet it while it tries to figure out how it might work out how to eat us. We find these predatory creatures adorable.
Dogs require companionship and work, but they will do work. Even my lazy, pug, Frankie knows that her job is to make sure I wake up on time to go to my day job, even on the weekends, take walks in the park and garden, and to write stuff that I then read out loud to her. She understands the crying when whatever I have written is awful.
I sometimes threaten to get a cat myself. I think it would add humor to our situation. The pug knows about cats, and does not like them. One tried to eat her once or so she claims.
So anyways, my daughter is getting a kitten. Probably.
Politics will only ever divide us, incense emotions, devour our humanity, exacerbate real human suffering, and cause us to hate each other. Politicians have no intention of helping solve anything. If there are no problems, they get no votes.
Puppies, on the other hand, remind us of playfulness, joy, love, and comfort. That is a position where we can start to heal one another. We don’t need politicians. We need puppies. So here are some puppies.
I am finishing up a book. So that means there are queries to be written and revised, a final version of the book to be printed and sent to the final two beta readers, synopsis, agent research and so my blog will suffer some lapses here and there. But there will be puppies. Enjoy.
So when I was about fourteen, my mother replaced my brother and I with a West Highland Terrier she called Piper. No, I am not kidding. My mother was so enamored of Piper that she quickly acquired another West Highland Terrier which she and my dad called Impudence, prettier than Piper but less well-behaved. From that time on, my parents always have two Westies. Today, it is Mercer (after Johnny Mercer) and Too Tall, a rescue that is far larger than the Westie breed standard. In photo collections whether in albums or digital, ever since the late 80s, my parents photos are more Westie than human family.
When my dad published his first book, Waldo Chicken Wakes the Dead, in the little author blurb that goes with books, he mentioned my mom and the Westies, but no mention of his two kids. We were totally overtaken by the little white ratters.
This once bothered me, when I was still a kid, before I had a child. Now I sort of get it. About dogs. Don’t get me wrong. I love my kid more than I love myself. I would trade my soul to protects hers.
I would also do that for any of my dogs. They are far more agreeable than people. And Westies have no idea that they are dogs. They are the joy and exuberance that somehow my parents could not allow themselves in their own lives. My dad, maybe, but my mom she gave all her joy and possibility to her dogs and put her own in a bottle.