Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Therapy dog

For the past couple days, my home has been the latest playground for a goofy, loose jointed mess of a dog named Winston.  He is my 'granddog', which sounds nobler than Winston acts.  He belongs to my son's girlfriend, a puppy selected together when they began to date nearly three years ago.  He is a Pug.  A Pug that snores, hogs the bed, weighs three hundred pounds when he sleeps, and dribbles water in a 80 square foot area when he drinks.

The kids thought he would help me cope with having Cali so sick and in the hospital so far away.  They were right; I have been able to laugh through my tears when he flings toys so high they bounce off the ceiling or when he tips his head from side to side as I talk to him, lower teeth showing in a pearly line set in his black black face.  

But, as importantly, he perks up when I begin to cry, lands in my lap, places his front paws on my shoulders, looks straight into my eyes, and licks the tears off my cheeks.  He stays there until I give up and pretend to be okay, after which he jumps down and prances off smartly, as if  proud of a job well done.  Then, he comes back every three to five minutes to check on me until he is satisfied that I won't fall apart again.  
 
For all his silliness and joie de vivre, he takes his role as my therapy dog seriously.  And he is very, very good at it.


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