My Dog, the Asshole

And he is: Maxwell, the asshole. He thinks he is dominant, but that's my own fault. It's just that, in the morning, when he trusts me enough to turn his tummy up for rubs, it's hard to remember he is an asshole. He chases the cats sometimes, in a spirit of joie de vivre, and he barks at everyone. He has other faults I will not name, I am not into dog shaming here. His lack of manners is my own fault. So, back to obedience training.

In other news, I face a challenge today that I cannot write about.

Pancake plays with her new friend, Bob, and I visited them both yesterday. She still recognizes me, and I hope she never forgets me.

How about a pic for old time's sake, Alice?

Kinda grainy, but you get the idea? I dreamed I had another litter last night, and about my Mom. I have so many dreams about her. I think of the New Adventurers with a tinge of nostalgia now that sends shivers down my spine. Yesterday, at the Pound in Roanoke, a mother named Hope, and her litter of kittens was put to sleep, put down more like it. I wish I could have saved them, but 20 more would have popped up in her place, their places...please spay/neuter your pets...

No more sad things right now. I missed my dose of Happy Pill yesterday, haven't picked it up from the pharmacy, and I can tell.

But I do love this morning: it is overcast, and very verdant and green, lush. We had our own mini hurricane yesterday, in this small corner of the world, and everything is still very wet. The path is wet, and it is for sure that my dog, the asshole, will not go out to pee this morning. He is very sensitive about water. He used to be a free-roaming country dog, and now plays that card to the hilt. Sometimes I have to carry him to his line, to pee.

Eddie Spirit dog, my service animal, is simply a distant dream. But I did have the amazing good fortune to have spent a special part of my life with him. This dog, Maxwell, is less obedient, but happier. I suppose that's why I let him get away with behavior Eddie Spirit dog wouldn't have dreamed of doing.

I love the fields when they are watery. I have muck boots, and nothing slows me down. Spider webs are outlined by the water, and every blade of grass runs with it. The trees on the edge of the field hum with the raw taste of the rain. I rejoice for them. Every leaf is delineated with silver, and bark turns darker. Small rivers run down every tree, their courses dictated by the manner of bark...

The daylilies are blooming now, in all this world of water, and the orange stars on their tall stems peek from every shaded bank where they are allowed to grow. And they do grow here...for some reason, the grass mowers for the state of Virginia, sometimes convicts, avoid cutting the flowers if they can. Patches of chicory, with it's purple blooms, clover and wild rose, stand by the side of the highway. Of course, the daylilies fall under this grace of growth. They are wild and tame, cherished and prolific. They float above the river banks like the mist floats over the fields this morning.

Onto my challenge...

Another pic of Max: