Not A Dumb Blonde

Early in the morning, I crawl into bed very close to her.  

She probably thinks I want my morning cookie, or that my bladder is about to burst.  

Not true.

It's the contact.  We both need it.  

People have rules about PDA.  Dogs have our own rituals (the proverbial butt sniff being one of many), but, unless someone has damaged us deeply (and maybe not even then), we are PDA hogs.  

We know you love it.  You love making our back leg wave like a turkey leg at Thanksgiving when you rub our bellies in that "spot."  You laugh, we don't mind the attention, so we both get nothing but good from it.  

She will kiss me on my pink nose but she hates it when her mother tries to mouth kiss her.  She conveniently forgets all the places that nose has been that day.  Hey -- she's yet to come down with a dog-related disease, so?

My point:  I could be spending my time chasing squirrels, eating out of the garbage bin next door and vomiting on the Oriental, but here I am with her in bed, with my head in her lap (does she ever NOT have a camera handy? sheesh).  

I hope I will be enough when I am the only one left.  I hope I will be enough while she loses her mother to dementia.  

I would walk through fire for her.