Thursday, May 21, 2009
Maggie is "my" dog. Maggie doesn't know she is a dog and doesn't even like dogs. Maggie is VERY smart, so smart that we now have to spell things like "go" and "chicken" and "Walmart". You get the picture? Maggie is about 6 years old now and we thought she would be about 8 pounds when she was grown. Maggie is 17 pounds. Her mother was a schnauzer and her father a yorkshire terrier. She is a yowzer or a snorkie or something like that. Maggie was supposed to be my dog but she thinks she is my husband's dog. I am okay in her sight but her Papa is the one she longs for.
I am the one she begs from.
At the end of most days I put on lounge wear (we call them dusters but they are what most people would call a light robe or house dress probably), get my phone, my glasses, my cool drink, the tv controller, and go sit in front of the tv, maneuver everything within reach, adjust the pillow behind my back and then put my lap board on my lap with all the beading stuff that tries to roll off because it is balanced precariously on the lap board and prop my feet on a foot stool.
Only after all this takes place and I am finally able to relax and start beading does Maggie let me know that she either needs to go out or needs her daily treat. It never happens before. Never. So, after hearing her whine quietly and feel her staring at me for a few minutes I get up, doing everything in reverse, carefully so as not to spill anything, and go get the treat or whatever. Then the process starts all over again.
Now I ask you, who is the smarter of the two of us? If it were me don't you think I would remember to get the treat before I even started to sit down? Huh? Huh?