I heard the old guy say, “You know that P.J. is about the most neurotic creature I have ever known.”
Well that just ain’t so. That foxy Doctor Susan said I may be a little ADDHA (attention deficit disordered with hyper activity) but she didn’t say anything about being neurotic. The old guy has room to talk. He is the world’s biggest fuddie-duddie. Every day he does the same things over and over just like he could not think of something new to do. He crawls out of bed, goes to the bathroom, bushes his teeth, takes a shower, makes some coffee, eats some breakfast, (none of which he offers me), takes his medicine then sticks his nose in the machine where he writes silly stories.
I have listened to the woman and the old guy talk about his ancestors. Well I am here to tell you my bloodline is better than his and I have papers to prove it. But when it is all said and done I guess he didn’t mean any real harm by calling me neurotic. He ain’t really a bad guy and I do have a tendency to be afraid of lightning and thunder and firecracker noise. I cry a lot when I hear these things. He should not call me neurotic just because I whine when I see humans doing stupid things like climbing up on wobbly chairs or ladders to put something in windows. I know they can fall and hurt themselves. I have done that myself.
But there ain’t much else I fear. I love people and they love me, but I will fight with another dog at the drop of a bone. When them prissy little dogs walk up and down my street and bark at me with their squeaky little barks while I am in my own house, I just want to go after them and bite them good. That little French Bulldog is the worst. Every time he walks by my house, he snarls at me. I just wish the old guy and the woman would let me at that rascal. He would not be so feisty after I got through with him.
When I was just a pup and lived in Pensacola. Loud noises didn’t bother me too much until that nasty old Hurricane Ivan came to town. That thing about blew the place away. The folks I lived with then locked me in the house and ran away from the hurricane and left me there to fend for myself. The screeching wind and falling trees about scared me to death. I ain’t never been the same since.
I guess I got on my other owners’ nerves so bad they had to give me away to the old guy and his sweet wife. My new owners drove all the way over to Pensacola to pick me up. I stayed on my best behavior and I heard them tell one another they didn’t understand why my old owners gave me away. Things went well at my new home until the first storm came along. I just could not control myself and went into one of my frenzies.
The smart woman, who I now know is the Alpha woman, knew what to do to make me feel better. She gave me some pills Dr. Susan gave her then she wrapped me in an old tee shirt that smelled like her. She then took an old leg brace that smelled like the old guy and strapped that tight around my body. I guess I looked fairly ridiculous, but all of this felt good and calmed me down some. I still felt like crying so the woman took me into her cool, dark bedroom and turned on some soothing music. In no time I fell asleep even though the storm beat against the windows.
A really old guy lived downstairs in my new home. My new owners call him Mr. Roy. This kind old gent always told me, “Your are a good dog P.J. and you are a pretty dog too.” He would then pet me with his oversized hands. It felt like he was wearing a baseball glove when he stroked me with those big paws of his. Mr. Roy really knew how to treat a fellow well and make him feel good. I liked him a bunch. When my new owners would leave the house I would go right away and sniff at Mr. Roy’s door. He would let me in and tell me I was pretty dog. He had a comfortable rug I could sleep on while he watched sports shows on TV all day. His room smelled like food all the time. His hands had become unsteady and occasionally I could scarf up some goodies he let fall to the floor. Storms and firecrackers didn’t bother me at all when I was Mr. Roy in his cozy room.
After a while my new owners brought home a furry little black dog to live with us. They said they rescued her from an animal shelter. That black dog and I had at least that much in common. We both had been rescued. At first I didn’t care much for that new dog they called Mira. She was a girl dog. People are right when they call girl dogs bitches. Mira would not even let me try to hump her. It really didn’t matter because my humping parts had been cut out long before Mira came along. But when I did try she just turned away uninterested.
Nothing seemed to bother that Mira dog. The lightning and thunder did seem to upset her a bit. She would quietly go and hide in the bathroom. That brazen little dog would come and eat out of my bowl. I thought “What the hell. If I fight her about that, the man and woman will just get mad with me and I can’t stand that.” But sometimes Mira would just go too far and I would start a fight, but the first time I did that I quickly learned that little dog had a big fight in her. She tore into me and red and black fur flew all over the back yard for about ten seconds.
After a while I became fond of that little feisty black dog. We would even share chewies. Chewies are doggie treats that we dogs like as much as you people crave chocolate candy. She would torment me though when she would come and take my chewie out of my mouth and run around with it teasing me. I would whine and cry and the woman would make her give my chewie back.
She being a girl and me being a gentleman, I felt it my duty to protect her, especially from other dogs. But, as I mentioned before, she could pretty well care for herself. Once that silly looking French Bulldog walked by and gave her a nasty look. The woman held on to me so I could not get to him. Mira somehow got loose from the woman. She just ambled across the street to where that French dog was and bit him right on his long, ugly nose. When he growled in protest she just turned and bit him on the nose again. That dog’s master was some upset. I haven’t seen them since.
The woman and the man were big on walking. They would take Mira and I for long walks. Mira just ambled along causally sniffing here and there. I found it more fun to strut at a good pace and keep guard for anything that might be ahead.
Mira and I did learn to take care of one another. Once when the woman walked up past a neighbor’s house, the neighbor’s young chow dog came running full out toward us. You know them chow dogs with their purple tongues are a mean breed. Mira was nearest to him. I could see him coming after her. I just jumped over Mira, grabbed that chow and gave him a good licking.
The woman would take Mira and I swimming in the big lake across the street. Now I like swimming well enough, I ain’t big on it as Mira. That Mira could swim all day long.
When it became a little colder, ducks would come and land in our lake. Something deep down inside of me gave me the urge to swim out after those black critters. They floated way out in the middle of the lake so I had to swim a long ways out. As I would get near them, I could see that they could swim away from me. I would keep a going toward them, then all of a sudden they would duck under the water and vanish in the flick of a tail. I would swim around in circles looking for them, but they were nowhere to be found. I could not even smell them anymore, so I had to swim back to Mira who was just too lazy to chase ducks. That laidback Mira always let me do the hard work–like chasing ducks out of our lake. This tired me out so much I had to sleep almost all the rest of the day.
Mira would see to it that no birds nibbled in the woman’s vegetable garden she had in our backyard. That little black dog would run birds out of the garden until her tongue hung out. Mind you, though, she did not have any better luck catching any of them than I had catching those crafty ducks.
After we lived together for a long while, Mira became very sick. She could not keep up with us when we walked. She could not get up and down the stairs by herself. She was not eating her food and throwing up what little she could put down. She just wanted to lay in the sun in the courtyard. Knowing that she was suffering, I stayed close by her. I let her sleep on my favorite bed. I sniffed her many times a day hoping to find her recovering. She only became weaker to the point where she could not even walk. She was not with us long after that.
I miss that little aggravating black dog. I moped around the house for weeks looking for her. Sometimes, I still just sit and stare into space wondering when my lost friend will return.