by Dinah, the Labrador
Hello, Cheri’s readership ( all ten of you)!
In Cheri’s composing, anytime she mentions my name, I have asked her in no uncertain terms ( I do this by repeatedly putting my paw with overgrown nails on her thigh while she is trying to write on her (damn) computer), to notify me and secure my approval before she uses me for her own personal entertainment.
This request has always gone by ignored. (Shock)
You regular readers, all ten of you, must know that when she photographed me growling at the Dyson vacuum last year (as if it were weird to be frightened by a sucking machine with a see-through canister that holds so much of my own hair), she did not ask my permission.
That I now have developed a perfectly normal aversion to coming down one stair from our entry way to the only room I am allowed in, the “family” room, is no big deal.
I decided to beat Cheri to the punch and put that psychological diagnosis right out on the table before she could use me for your amusement.
She tends to that with many people and pets. I call that habit “ruthless.”
My decision to elevate my concern about trotting down one tile step started when I must have tripped either going down or coming up. I’m overweight; my nails look like a fortune-teller’s; is it any wonder that a 70-lb person ( I mean, dog) who walks on four legs with over-grown nails might worry about “getting a grip???”
I asked Cheri to describe the pre-dance that I now do before I can come down that one stair.
She likened it to a Roomba vacuum (there’s that V-word again) stuck in forward-backward motion, trying to move but unable to do so. The clicking of the nails on the tile, the readiness of a creature to step down (but not), the locomotion of a falling object accented by whining and whirring…
It’s really gotten out of paw. I refer to Cheri’s angst.
I find that being stuck in limbo (between the entry and the family room) in a place outside the powder room draws incredible attention to my predicament although Cheri’s husband, the good judge, could “care less.” He appears to be more concerned with his Wheat Thins and vodka tonic than my anxiety on the stair.
Last night, Cheri had had it watching what she termed a “pathetic situation.”
Finally, her brain clicked into gear.
She saved my life by putting an old towel (now dirty with rainy paw prints) over the one stair.
I’m coming down no problem.
Life is good.