(oops, forgot a title)
Every night it seems to be our routine.
Wonderfully silly and surreal TV shows about Ditzy Farm Wives with a Pig that is smarter than you are. Women who once moved to Minneapolis where it was cold and she thought she’d “Keep Better” but now is giving Noo Yawk its “Last Chance”. RCMP Mounties in Chicago with a deaf wolf solving crimes.
Ahh they don’t make TV like that now do they?
Sheldon and Leonard or Rachel and Ross aside that is.
Being the tall and Rangy type, my arms and legs go all over the place. I illegally put my right leg up on the arm of the couch where I have created a divot. I really shouldn’t do that but if I don’t Mr Dog can’t get back to his corner.
That corner. It has the foam rubber from an Ikea Poang Chair wrapped in a synthetic blanket. It’s his bed. He lays on it, sometimes. He lays next to it, sometimes. Other times he melts off the side in some weird origami pattern bent like a sausage and flattened out.
It’s the life of having a working dog in a suburban home.
I don’t think I could do this with a pure bred Border Collie. They’re wonderful dogs, but when old Alexander McNab made the breed that I favor, McNab Dog, he bred out the twitchiness and the extreme need to be doing something NOW! at any moment.
While the people on the farms where the McNab was originally created for will scream “He’s a Working Dog! He should be on a FARM”, I am proof that one size does not fit all.
Besides, I am constantly reading about McNabs who decided that life on the farm may be kind of laid back but not for them.
They walk off and find their way to other farms or into homes and these amazingly adaptable creatures do well.
My own Dog Of A Lifetime has a job. It’s Me. Living here near the shops and the tourists, he’s able to get a lot of mental stimulation that a lifetime of chasing sheep will never give him.
The only weird affect he seems to be developing is he has chosen guarding as his job.
At night when I’m watching Lisa “plug in an 8” and blow out the “electricical”, Rack is resting under my hand. I’m giving him belly rubs with that hand and he’s happy.
Dreaming happy dreams where his tail wags, maybe dreaming of running through his wormhole to visit the other realm where Rack is King of the McNabs, or just wandering behind the hedges to have a little peace away from the loud diesel trucks that are servicing the shops.
It’s all good, it’s all waggable, he’s a happy soul that rests next to his job.
But I do get tired from time to time and have to take my hand back.
That is when we discovered something curious. I can use a sock.
No, seriously. If he goes into that trance like state, where he’s awake but not really, I can place a sock or two across his belly that is exposed and the weight of the hosiery does just enough.
He thinks I’m still petting the belly that he exposes like a light switch lighting the dark, and I get to shake blood back into my hand and wind my automatic diver’s watch a little bit.
Yes, living in Florida with a pool, having a diver’s watch is important since you just might get knocked into the pool. When Rack gets charging around those corners out there, he’s been known to fly over the water and into that wormhole where I have been knocked into the deep end once or twice.
Got to work on that there, Cow Dog!
When he finally comes fully aware that he’s been duped, we start that cycle again. Arnold the Pig is grunting on the TV or we’re visiting with that Mighty Fine Woman, Kate at the hotel near the tracks. Rack is guilting me to rub his belly again.
All are happy, all are well in our little land of domesticity.
Would not have it any other way!