If you were as pretty (and as prissy) as Janie, would you want to go out in the rain and get your feet wet? Well, of course not!
Janie asked me to tell everyone that she would really, really love a set of puppy Chucks. Like the ones in this picture, but preferably sequined. There is nothing and I mean nothing she dislikes more than going outside for her morning…visit with nature…only to find that the grass is <<gasp>> wet.
It goes like this. She hits about the second step down, realizes it’s wet, and stops. Right there. One front paw on the wet step, the other in the air. Back legs are in a wobbly state of uncertainty. Being like her mistress (me), she has the grace of a drunken sailor. So, it’s a precarious moment. She looks around and the message on her face is plain as day: please send me a magic carpet so I don’t have to subject myself to this… this…. this… torture!!! She looks back at me with that puleeeeeeeeeze rescue me Mommy! face which, I admit, is often effective. But not when it comes to necessary communes with nature.
At this point she might or might not get a helpful nudge from behind. This is akin to ripping off a bandaid. By the time she trots down a few more steps to the landing, all four paws are now unpleasantly damp. You can see it in her entire stature. She’s demoralized, shrunken, defeated. Miserable.
Casting about for a way to do her business without actually touching
hot lava wet grass, she paces back and forth on the landing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like she’s willing the Sahara to magically appear. At this point, she decides the whole exercise is not worth it and makes a break for it, scampering back up the steps. She can hold it, dadgummit! She can hold it til it quits raining!
Much to her displeasure, she is sent packing back down to the depths of doom. Every blue moon she will venture out on her own and do her thing as close as she possibly can to the steps. Honestly, I’m surprised she doesn’t hang her fanny off the edge of the steps. Maybe it’s that whole balance thing again, bless her heart. But, more often than not, she goes back to pacing the landing like she’s a new father outside the delivery room (in the old days). We’re reaching crisis stage. Those of you who know me and, more importantly, those of you who know Neal, know that by this point patience is wearing. Really. Thin. Now she must be picked up and
bodily gently tossed into the grass, after which it’s pretty anticlimactic.
This is where the real fun comes in for her. Like any wet dog who’s been let loose after a bath or something, she goes full on puppy blitz, flying around the house like the bird from the roadrunner cartoons. On
every those mornings when Neal is up before me, and she’s gone through this whole routine, she comes flying into the bedroom, jumps on top of me, and proceeds to rub her wet self all over me with great glee. Her little way of getting back at us…aw, ain’t she a stinky, wet dog sweet.
I am she is totally begging just saying that if it happens to occur to you to buy me her a Happy Tuesday Christmas present, she would really, really, really like a set of these shoes to wear when it’s raining. I promise She promises to post a picture of her wearing them!