It’s what I have. I have it, and it can't be cured, but my boy knows what makes me tick.
|Excuse the vivid image but my Golden Retriever can recognise the smell of the butt of a visitor or any other canine just as well as any other dog. What he can’t do very well is sprint or run marathons; he can amble along for a short while or take a short leisurely walk. It’s the other senses and the other smells that make you just want to eat him all up and pinch those doggy cheeks.
Postmen or Postwomen drop mail in my mailbox and he doesn’t move more than an eyeball if he is outside and can see the drop. That’s OK by me as I never felt the need for a watch dog or a spy dog and I find barking unpleasant, especially barking at a non-threatening passer-by. So I feel relaxed with the process so far. It is what comes next that causes my chest to tighten.
Allergy to bills, it’s what I have. I have it, it can’t be cured. It doesn’t start with a lovely stroll through my garden, the flowering red roses accompanied by the assortment of other blossoms, the scents or the greenery or the path that winds a person down to the mail box. Aaah… mmm… take it all in, especially in the summer months.
The collection is also great – That anticipation of what did I get today – Surprise! A letter from a friend, a cousin, a sister, a brother, a gift! Some news, a magazine, the paper, a catalogue! Somewhere in-between the goodies there is a chance there lies a bill or two. I gather the pack and put the good ones on top and the bills underneath. Nicely packaged I take the stroll back up to the house.
Here’s where my boy shows me he has talent. I give off a hint of anxiety at the dining room table. It’s my spot of post collection post inspection. He pricked his ears, waggled his nose and waddled in after me. He had whiffed a trace of subconscious anxiety antibody and came in to lie by my feet. He is lying down but his head is looking up. He scans the airwaves for my vibes without moving.
He processes the crisp action of a letter opener as I take care with the letter, he notes my smile vibe as I read the goings-on of my pen pal, he classifies the sliding of one page under the next and he compiles the sensory components as I replace the pages back in the envelope for safe keeping. He updates his senses bank – sounds, smells of hand-written ink, high quality paper, glue licked with saliva and a mint postage stamp + the good vibes = happy!
I got no paper today, but there are some catalogues and some advertising and these all make me feel neutral. Then my hand rests on the inevitable. I touch a plastic window. That horrible window of cheap plastic that forces you to see the name and address of the electricity and water council.
My boy’s back stiffens and his ears flatten as he anticipates my impending unhappiness. My rough and careless tearing of the envelope causes him to yelp under his breath and close his eyes for fear of taking in too much. A further wave follows - paper scrunching, machined smells, poor quality material and my vibe of distaste all clock up the miles as his sense bank confirms the diagnosis. He pants after experiencing the ordeal with me and watches me retreat sadly to my bedroom to cover my head with a pillow. I left the bill on the table.
He has talent that dog. My boy knows what makes me tick. That’s his thing – his sense of everything and what causes it. As for his sensibility – that’s a matter of perspective.
I can imagine what goes through his mind. Does he use the chair for his paws so he can get his chin up on the table and gently pick up the bill? Does he bring it to me in the bedroom and lay it down next to me on the bed? Does he gently place his muzzle under the pillow and comfort me? Does he show with his eyes that it’s OK? That thing is not dangerous.
Well he does start this way. He does get his chin up on the table and take the bill. Then I am not sure what happens. Is it his intention all along or only now that he is in close contact with it, does he wonder if that bill can really be dangerous?
Well, he doesn’t take any chances. Every rip and bite feeds the frenzy. When I finally come out of my room he’s there making sure that none of the tiny pieces he chewed up are out of his sight, even for a second. He looks at me confused – he knows he shouldn’t chew things – but that thing is evil!