Saturday, September 12, 2009
Still life …
is how herself styles this pic. Those two are seldom still, so she's caught a rare moment. The smaller dog has failed two auditions for placement elsewhere and is getting rather comfortable here. In the whole world there is nothing better in its way than a puppy. All puppies are cute or endearing or something good. I'm sure he does more good for the blood pressure than Norvasc does. When I hold this one, he climbs up my chest to my shoulder and gnaws on my earlobe. I suspect he was taken too young from his mommy and is looking for a pap rather than Pappy. As I am a symphony of sagging flesh, he finds a lot of promising pendulous protuberances to try out; none avails. He does pretty well on puppy chow and has learned that activity in the kitchen often produces treats.
A week or so past, it came to me as I was wobbling on the edge of sleep that his name was Moose, playing on the tradition that calls a fat guy Tiny or a swarthy one Blondie. Or perhaps it was Mus, Mus musculus being the proper scientific name of the house mouse and he being mousy in color and almost in size, not to mention those beady black eyes. Or perhaps it was Mousse, as we have a thing of sometimes naming animals for food. My wife tried to trick me into a gratuitous cat by naming it Brisket, but the ruse didn't work.
The larger pup is named Roux, also a food word. Or perhaps Rue, because she was a little street dog when she applied for a position in our pack [or maybe Rue because I sometimes rue the day we took the crazy, yapping monster in]. Or it could be Roo, as a bow to her obviously Australian heritage.
Dogs are the best.