Some hands feel marvelous stroking
my head and ears, sweet rapture, but I still find it difficult to trust human
hands that hurt me so often. My body yearns for a gentle caress, but poking my
sides is no fun for me. I gently nipped for fear of reprisal as a “bad” dog;
some folks thought bitey mouth was a game I liked to play, so they’d laugh and
poke like it was funny. Big whoop for them, all I wanted is for you to pet me
and make me feel good.
Grabbing me around my ribs behind
my front legs hurts, yet people picked me up like that all the time. They
wondered why I don’t like to be picked up and run from their grasp. As mom’s
friend, Marcie says, “Duh!”
Dogs have their aches and pains,
just like people, even Smoki, the cat aches, poor guy has a little kitty limp.
I have arthritis from being hit by a car. My hips hurt and my tail is kinked.
Mom tries to help me, in spite of her making it feel better later; I can stand
only so much touch before I must get away.
Mom tries to fix me too much, I
know she wants to help, but what I like the best is the twilight time when we’re
in bed with her hand gently resting on my back, not doing a thing. She does,
thank heaven, know how to pick me up with a hand under my front and the other
supporting my rear end. I do trust her to pick me up.
It is a late fall day in Puerto
Rico, the wind is roaring through the grass and it looks like rain; mom and
Marcie are going to a Paso Fino Horse Show. I heard them planning on the phone,
so after frantic tail wagging and big sad eyes, Blondie and I will retire to
the bed for serious napping. Chi-Ping
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