Ten-Finger Exercises

Seamus

In my cast of characters, I forgot to mention Seamus (pronounced Shay-mus.) He is our undocked Bouvier des Flandres who came from the dog pound. A litter of three had been tied in a backyard for a year before the owner surrendered them.

I had an in-ground swimming pool in my back yard at the time, and our boxer, who hadn't cared a thing about the water, had died. I took Seamus home "on approval" for the weekend, to make sure he didn't love swimming or digging under fences or any of those naughty things. He did not. He was the model dog. I've always wondered if pound dogs know in their heart of hearts that they've been rescued and must somehow live up to their reward.

Seamus was Amos at first. Then I worried a little that someone might think it was racist, his being a big black dog. The neighborhood kids cinched the name change though: they called him Anus.

He's probably at least 15 years old by now, and much slower, even when a walk is at hand. The heat is bothering him this summer, so I let him stay inside, expecting to be home a little sooner than I was. I went to the Y to swim at lunchtime, and got an emergency call there, which took up a couple extra hours.

On opening the house door, I couldn't help but notice I should have gotten home sooner. Whew--the odor! I haven't been able to track it down to dispose of. Maybe it will only be possible to find at night in bare feet, but I'm hoping it was just gas. Horrendous gas! It does worry me on several counts though. One is that the cat began smelling so bad a week or so before she died. No, I can't think of any chemicals either of them could have gotten into. I have all the fans on now and the doors open, but it's time to brave myself for another look.

P.S. No little surprises, and the odor finally dissipated.