June 26, 2019

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the house is blessedly quiet. In all fairness, the house has been pretty quiet even after the move-in last week. Most of the time, one wouldn’t know that this is now a house that boasts more than one dog. Actually, we have my daughter’s four small chihuahuas and our Mr. Tuffy. Five. Five dogs. This isn’t the first time the Ashbury’s have had five dogs at one time. That other time was when we lived out in the rural environs of the community into which I was born. I’m thinking, around 40 years ago.

At this moment, Mr. Tuffy is with his daddy, at the park. That morning scooter ride and walk is their private time. The others show no jealousy, and only bark when they first see their grandpa in his scooter. He brings it down from the upper back yard on his own, and then he comes in and gets the dog, loading up on the sidewalk in front of the house.

I asked David if his reason for doing it that way now was because Tuffy recalls vividly the last time daddy put him in the basket in the backyard. That time ended up in David’s dumping the scooter with the puppy in the basket. It was a very gradual “dump” and David protected the dog. Neither was hurt, of course, unless you count Mr. Ashbury’s pride. I don’t believe he answered the question.

But I digress.

The first two to three days, move and post-move, were exhausting for Tuffy. One of my daughter’s dogs had just finished her heat a couple days prior to the event. So Tuffy’s interest in her was, shall we say, heightened. That’s a good word because for the most part, it describes Tuffy’s challenge with um…intimacy. He’s lacking the sufficient height in his legs to get to the good part. So, except for one time when my daughter wanted this particular dog of hers to have puppies with Tuffy as the daddy, he’s never quite managed to fulfill nature’s urge. (That one time she kind of helped by facilitating the event with a clever placement of stools.)

By Sunday afternoon our poor dog was exhausted, the female dog in question was resigned, and life more or less returned to normal—whatever that is.

The dogs have free reign of the house except at nighttime, and otherwise except for one other thing. I will not allow any other dogs on my desk, between my monitor and tower. That’s Tuffy’s private spot and is to be honored because this was his home first. He’s happy to come to bed with us each night again (he didn’t want to do that the first few nights), and the only difference there is that he wants out of our room on his own at some point in the wee hours. I’m not quite sure why that is, because the others are upstairs in the newly renovated bed-sitting room, behind a closed door. Oh, and we close our door at night, too, because my daughter gets up very early, and her dogs don’t need help to jump up on our bed.

We’re all still finding our balance in this new expanded household. David isn’t fond of having more than one dog—his own—wanting to sleep on him while he’s in his recliner, relaxing and watching television. I don’t mind it so much. In a way, it’s nice, because Tuffy doesn’t like my chair and so won’t sit with me. There’s a space between the foot panel and the seat. There is strong upholstery there, so he wouldn’t fall through, but he doesn’t like it. The other dogs do settle down, and they are actually a lot better trained than our dog is. So yes, part of my job now is to be a puppy bed for at least three of my daughter’s dogs. They don’t weigh much. But they are fairly well trained.

Yesterday was a case in point. I was right here, at my keyboard, working away on my manuscript. David was on the porch, the front door was open, and all the dogs were with him. They all love being out on the front porch, as long as there’s a chair for them to sit on. Apparently, the cement is too whatever for them. The chihuahuas are trained that when the “squirt bottle” appears, they stop barking.

Predictably, when a person walking their dog appeared, the dogs all started yipping and my husband grabbed up that squirt bottle and asked, “Do you want me to use this?”

Well, the dogs did shut up immediately with the exception of the oldest one. It was enough to break my author-concentration. I called out, asking David, “which one of those little guys just said ‘no’?” I’d heard it, plain as day.

Surprise? Yes. Shock? Maybe not so much as we had a cat once who learned how to say ‘no’. In response, my husband cut to the real issue, and did it adroitly.

His reply: “It was Bella (the oldest). Let’s hope that’s the only thing she says no to.”

Here’s hoping, indeed.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury