My brother's dog Teddy spent the weekend with Daisy the Mutt and me. Teddy, compared to Daisy is...a challenge. Sunday morning is a time of rest and relaxation at the luxurious Pimplebutt Estate. I usually roll out of bed around 9:00 am, shower, dress and make breakfast. And Sunday breakfasts are my favorite as I have the time to fry bacon, scramble eggs, toast bagels, squeeze orange juice and brew up a fresh pot of coffee. Compare that to Monday breakfasts which are generally consumed at the steering wheel of my company truck and consist of a banana and a bottle of skim milk.
Daisy comes into the Great Hall about half way through Face the Nation and is content to crawl upon my lap and nap until the Sunday yak shows are over. Then we get some chicken jerky dog treats in my hip pocket, get the dog collar snapped in place and go down the steps to the garage. "Up! up! up!" and Daisy hops into the passenger seat. The door goes up, the engine is started and by 11:30 we are on our way to the park.
This Sunday passed, I got a face full of Teddy kisses at 6:30 am. I arose, slipped on my bedroom slippers, affixed Teddy's collar and put him on the lead which is screwed into the fertile soil of my front lawn. "What the hell?" I muttered as I staggered into the kitchen and put the kettle on the boil. Within three minutes I heard Teddy yapping to come back inside. He had broken the steel cable lead he was tied to and was dragging it around the front lawn.
He bounded inside and took his place on my lap, an uncomfortable place for me as he out weighs Daisy by 20 pounds. The kettle was whistling and I made coffee in my French press. I slid a bagel into the toaster and got the cream chees from the icebox. No Sunday news shows were on that time of the morning and I dare not go down to the corner store to buy the Sunday papers. I scrolled through the iPad for some news and chewed on my bagel.
At 9:00, I watched CBS Sunday morning, then Face the Nation. I let Teddy out again.
Daisy reliably stumbled out of the bedroom at 10:30 blinking her eyes like a toad in a rainstorm, oblivious to Teddy's early rising. While Teddy was outside, she crawled upon my lap for reassurance that she was still the queen pooch of Pimplebutt.
The chicken jerky treats went into my hip pocket, collars were affixed to dog necks. "Up! up! up!" and everyone was in the car to go to the park.
When walking Daisy, the routine is; I park. I open the door. Daisy hops out and gores to her favorite spot to pee. I begin the walk, tearing the strips of chicken jerky treats into bits the size of postage stamps. Daisy runs along side, occasionally spotting a squirrel and giving chase. She hops her front legs against the back of my knee to remind me she is right there and would enjoy a chicken snack. She sees a group of kids and runs to them to show off. They Ohh and Aww and are delighted by her antics.
With Teddy, I first have to get him into his harness, no small feat as he lays down and melts into the ground preventing my from getting his front legs in place and snapping the clip that secures the harness. Then I put his leash on the harness. Then I hang on for dear life. Walking him is like horizontally flying a kite. back and forth across the path he goes, barking at little kids on bicycles, other dogs, joggers and any other stimulant he sees. It's exhausting.
But I'm a dog guy and as any dog guy knows, it's the love of the pet that enables tolerance for the pet. Teddy is never worse for wear after a weekend with me. If only I could say the same.
