Looking out my Backdoor: Dog gone it

Back in July, I took a big step in my single life. I adopted Lola, a sweet dog, raised by friends who had rescued her mother, abandoned, heavy with pups, from homeless life on the streets of Oconahua, sleeping in doorways, eating garbage.

I like animals. I like pets. Dogs. Cats. Pigs. Rats. Yes, rats. When my daughter was 3, I went to buy a guinea pig but the pet store owner talked me into a pair of Chinese hooded rats.

Rats make excellent pets, are intelligent, affectionate and are not nocturnal like guinea pigs. I warn against getting an opposite sex pair, however, unless, perhaps you have snakes which need to be fed. Just saying.

Snakes? I draw the line at snakes.

Back to Lola. Lola is a fine dog. An excellent dog. She is a good companion. She is affectionate. Intelligent. Obedient. Has a loads of personality. She is a fine dog.

Best of all, every single day, my dog-pet-companion makes me laugh. Every day.

I know, slowly I am turning into one of those pet owners who bore you with stories of how wonderful their little snookums is.

Lola is not my child. If you ever hear me say, “Ooh, sugarpie, come to mommy,” shoot me.

However, every silver lining has a cloud.

About three weeks ago Lola came prancing up to me where I sat reading on the patio and dropped a trowel at my feet. She sat down, tail wagging, waiting for my high praise. I picked up the trowel, looked at it carefully. This trowel was not mine.

Leo was working in my yard. I handed him the trowel. “Oh, yes. This belongs to Janet.” Both our gates were open that afternoon so Lola simply walked next door and helped herself. I know we anthropomorphize pets, but Lola truly did seem proud to bring me a gift.

A few days later, my hairy companion and I were out walking. I wasn’t paying attention as she obediently bounced along behind me, a long-past-its-use-by-date welcome mat tightly clamped in her jaws.

“It’s mine,” Julie said. “I put it out for the garbage truck. Now you can deal with it.” I tossed it into my garbage can.

One afternoon, I was next door talking with Crin. Lola was rooting around beneath Crinny’s bougainvillea hedge and found one of those black plastic pots, the kind in which you bring plants home from the nursery. We watched her trot with her prize across the lane and through my gate where she placed her gift by my favorite chair.

Next it was a work boot of Francisco’s. Then a heavy-duty rubber glove that belonged to John. See a pattern developing here, folks?

Yesterday, Leo asked me, “Have you seen my scissors?” Scissors is his word for secateurs or garden clippers. We both looked down at Lola. She wagged and smiled. We still haven’t found them. Maybe they accidently got tossed out with the trash.

Today, it was a large knife Leo uses in his garden work, last seen on the yellow chair, used when he re-potted that feathery-ferny plant. All I can say is, “There is no evidence of blood.”

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. My neighbors raise chickens. They aren’t home this week. I’m thinking of taking Lola for a moonlight stroll. If I sit on their patio a while, Lola might drop a fat hen at my feet. Roast chicken for Thanksgiving dinner?

I suppose my goat bell on the gate will ring daily. “I’ve lost my pliers.” “Can’t find my glasses.” “Wonder if you’ve seen a stray white tennis shoe?” Good thing my neighbors like Lola.

“Lolita, sweetums, come to mama. What did you bring me today, my sweet poochy-woochy.”

Dog gone it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].