Monday, Monday

Sometimes I like to torment the dog. Because the dog is ALWAYS tormenting me.

Bucky is a slow mover every morning but particularly on Mondays, after a hard Sunday afternoon at the dogpark.

What really gets him is when I stumble into the family room early on Monday morning, crooning babybuckybabybuckybabybucky and find him stretched out in his usual place on the loveseat. I bury my face deep in the wide black flank of his hairy body. Then I rub my face back and forth. Drives him nuts.

If he's really in a mood, a vibrating growl starts deep in his chest, which is him telling me, "Oh, for God's sake, woman. Can you not leave me in peace? I'm SLEEPING here."

But sometimes, he gives in and flips over, awarding me his belly to rub. That's some expansive belly. He's a big boy.

And he's lovable -- and loving -- in a gruff way. He's really a grumpy old man, who's seen a lot and doesn't give himself over to much demonstration of affection. Oh, the occasional lick of the hand, but don't be expecting indiscriminate kissing. Wouldn't be dignified. No matter how much I beg.

Unless I'm cooking, or eating something. Then he can't get enough of me. As sex is to male humans, food is to this dog.

He gets this excited gleam in his eye: "Chicken! Yes!" Or "Asparagus! Yes!" Even "Orange Segments! Yes!" I'd never before seen a dog who insists on five to seven servings of fruits and vegetables. He really believes in the new Food Pyramid.

As long as you bring it to him. Don't expect him to bestir himself to come get it. Or sit for it. I mean, who are we talking about here?

Not just a dog. It's Bucky.