It's official. My home has been taken over by animals.
Dogs, to be exact.
Three of 'em.
There are days when I feel I exist solely for the purpose of serving their every whim and I live at their mercy. God I love them, but sometimes having three large dogs in the house is akin to living with three hairy bundles of happy, follow you everywhere, four-legged love. Heavy on the hairy bundles. There is Missy (the Rottweiller) constantly showing us her butt, demanding an explanation as to the whereabouts of her tail; and Allie, who has a tail which she wags with such enthusiasm at times I think she's going to break it off, and then there is Rumbeau.
Earlier I was vacuuming the carpeted stairs, making my way up from the basement, commenting to myself at the endless supply of dog hair seemingly wedged into every nook and cranny. With each step the hair multiplied. Hell bent in the seriousiness of the task, my inner dialogue went something like this:
I just vacuumed this weekend! Where is it all coming from? Gawd, I'm so sick of all this black hair. It's everywhere! Clearly, I wasn't in a good mood at the time. I swear...no more big dogs...next time it's a pappy or a westie. Or something hairless. Completely and totally hairless. I'm so sick of all this black hair! Argh!!! They mass produce this stuff...I swear it's going to ruin this vacuum! Maybe we should have got the industrial model.
There I am, swearing, cussing, and vowing to never allow another hairy four-legged, slobbering creature into my life, my house and my home...ever again!...when out of nowhere a fuzzy, squeaky toy drops on the step right in the path of the vacuum head. I stop and look up.
Perched above, with both paws strategically dangling over the top step, is Rumbeau, resting his head on his paws. Looking right at me with that face.
You know the face...
I'm a horrible, horrible person.
And my dog can read minds.
He knows...he always knows.
.·:*¨¨*:·. Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened. --Anatole France .·:*¨¨*:·.