My morning usually begins when I wake up and try not to make a sound or move too suddenly. Heaven forbid, I check the time on the phone charging beside my bed. The slightest noise, light or movement is like catnip to my daughter's two cats, Milo and Pandy (Pandora). It's a call to action, or attention, that brings them into my face and next to my hands, demanding immediate affection. This is particularly true of Milo, who before the age of 1, has become a very fat cat. Being hefty, he is quickly learning to push his weight around, to lean himself into me, my hands, my face, and use his girth to push them away from whatever they are doing and put himself in the space for attention instead. Ugh! "No! I just want to relax a few more minutes!!" He doesn't care! And funnier still (writing about it, not dealing with it) is that after he is pushed away and returns, only to be rejected yet again, he finally tires of the game. But then, with an, "I'll show you attitude", he struts to the night table and knocks down everything on it. He demands his attention.
So then, my morning really starts. Out of bed, I trudge to the kitchen, bleary eyed, finding the cat food. Milo has triumphantly beat me there, hovering over their bowls. He is the first to get the food, claim the food, make it his. Probably how he has gotten so fat. Pandy sits patiently, waiting for her turn. Cats now cared for. Check!
Time to start my coffee. Oh, it has a timer, and why I don't use it, I couldn't tell you...its the same quirkiness that caused me to stubbornly type in phone numbers for years rather than using speed dial. Like, if I didn't do it, I'd forget the number. Well, I finally gave in, and many numbers I have forgotten. Somehow, I don't think that using a timer will cause me to forget how to make coffee. But you never know.
The next task, is to walk the dogs. I currently live with three. I have an old chihuahua mix, a new Pom-Chi-Weenie puppy (sounds fancier than saying mutt), and my son's Gordon Setter mix. Their names are Gordo, Bentley, and Roscoe. The ritual begins.
First the leashes. This usually entails calling their names several times, just so they will know they are wanted. Not that they didn't know, its just that they come to the door, and scamper away, and back again, rarely stopping and staying long enough so I can attach the leash.
Usually, Milo has finished consuming his first meal by this time and is sitting in front of the door, as though he expects to go out with the rest of the animals. I think he could easily be trained to walk on a leash, but I will not add one more rope to the mix, or be one of those people. I used to have a neighbor who regularly walked her cat. It was a very strange sight. No, that it not me.
So, Milo gets shooed from the door and we venture out. The walk, is an adventure. In the three months since we've had Bentley, I have learned how to hold the leashes and which to hold where so they are handled as well as possible, which probably isn't well, at all. Down the stairs, we have our path set. They have selected their trees and their spots to finish their business. Unfortunately, in the process, they decide to make a dream weaver out of their leashes and twist and turn themselves so that I am in the middle of a mess. My expert leash holding doesn't do much more than make sure I don't lose the leashes when I am untangling myself from their web.
Of course, I could walk them separately, but I am far to stubborn for that. The time that would take out of each morning and the number of trips up and down the stairs, well, I just feel like they should learn how to behave in this little pack we've created. I'm not so sure they have the same intention. I've been asked who the dominant one is, and I honestly don't know. I don't think that one of us yet established that.
I just realized that when Bentley came into my life, was about the same time my sciatica started. An awful, nagging pain that has taken away any joy I had exercising or walking in general, and some days, when I'm in a twisted mess and trying to lift my legs out of the leashes, I just want to cry. Hmm, I wonder if there's a connection?
Why do I do it? I was wondering that same thing. I'm a softy and my daughter talked me into it is probably the best answer. I can also say that coming home to happy pets, who are excited to see me, is probably another. After working all day, I come through the door to these four legged lovelies who are doing their happy dances. It's like they are all really glad to see me. Happy I'm home...and that its time for a walk, so they can weave themselves around me, once again, dog whisperer, or not.
