The Bark of My Child
Today, because he is stinky and hairy and hasn't had a bath in a year (well, he does a lot of self-grooming), Bucky was taken to PetDaddy, the local dogbath emporium where he was booked for the premium shampoo, blowdry, anal gland expression (Don't ask. I don't.) AND Deluxe Furminator treatment.
After leaving 110 lbs of wildeyed black dog to the ministrations of the kindly girls at PetDaddy, we took ourselves over to Cafe Lulu where we drank lattes and ate bagels with eggs. Fun for us ... but our minds and hearts were at PetDaddy. I kept asking Jim, "Think we should go over there and check on him?" Jim kept saying, "No."
Eventually though, I convinced Jim that it was close enough to time that we could go back and see how it was going. I stuck my head in the door, said to the person at the counter, "We just came to see how ..." and I hear this anguished bark from the back, a bark that I recognize as that of my gigantic boy.
He heard me! He wants me to rescue him! I'm here, babydog, I'm here!!!
The girl at the counter said, a bit sternly, "He was doing fine. And we're not quite done."
Jim interjects, as he's dragging me back toward the door, "We understand ... we'll be back in a half hour."
But, but ...
Well, eventually they let me have him. With about ten pounds less hair than when he arrived. But I can't tell you how thrilled I was to have heard that bark. The bark of my furchild. Who recognized my voice. MY voice.
I guess you'd have to know how devil-may-care that dog is most of the time about my affection. But now I know the truth. He loves me.