~ On second thought… ~
Perfect morning. After breakfast, a quick collective sun-bath while the garden gets watered. Then, house still cool from overnight breezes. Windows closed, sun side curtains drawn… perfect all-paws-pause nap atmosphere.
Perfect noontime. Quick jaunt into the summer heat, and return to a biscuit and a full pack surround of Mom’s office chair.
In short order, Pru got us all invited to leave by refusing to stop grooming her sleek coat. It’s the way she winds down, but her exuberance was distracting Mom from her phone calls.
Nobody moved at the first urging from Mom for us to “Go find somewhere else to be annoying,” because we (the pack) wanted eye-contact (which we got in short order).
The reason eye contact with the pack was important at this moment was so we could collectively pretend Dad had forgotten to give us a biscuit. You know: give that wide-eyed “There’s something missing in our lives” look.
Of course Mom’s eyes drifted down to the bone shaped biscuit between Tucker’s white paws. (On occasion, Tucker savors holding his biscuit to prove his stoic, disciplined nature. I’m thinking it’s paws-heimers: he just forgets he’s holding it.)
Said Mom, “Since I see you’ve all had your treat, move along now and go see what Dad’s doing.”
Tuck was the first to jump up to leave, scooping his treat with Pru on his heels, hoping he’d drop a crumb or two in transit. I unfolded and headed to the bedroom. Keira stayed behind, pretending to still be asleep. Sometimes Mom gave Keira a bit of extra grace.
With Pru monitoring Tucker’s treat-progress in the living room and Keira left behind Mom’s office chair, I was getting the bedroom for myself. Well… almost. Dad was lying diagonal across the bed and looking down to his laptop on the floor.
“Hey Hazel McBazel, c’mon up.” Dad pretended to shift to give me more room. “You’re blocking the prime slipstream, just sayin’.”
Dad had taken the prime acreage below the ceiling fan. He made all the motions of sliding over while typing with his arms over the side of the bed, surrendering about three whole centimeters.
Curling up with my back against Dad’s pillow, I tried my best to ignore him now rolling from one side to another, trying to figure out just how exactly he can unfold from an awkward position held for far too long. His upper-half found the will to sit up while he braced one hand on the floor. (What could go wrong, you may ask).
Pru appeared on the open corner of the bed—literally appeared—which startled and unfolded Dad and made him lose his tenuous balance.
“Why do you do that, Pru?!” Meaning silently appeared.
She ignored Dad’s question and took in the sight of his head, shoulder and arm over one side of the bed, and one leg over the foot of the bed, and turned to me.
“Is Dad having a stroke?” she asked.
“No… He was typing on his laptop, which was on the floor. And before you rudely interrupted, he was doing his daily physical therapy, and now he’d like to continue. After you leave.”
I know I sounded a bit harsh, but I could feel my perfect afternoon turning into a bother.
Pru looked away from me and told Dad, “You got ten seconds to show me you’re okay and don’t need assistance or I’ll go get Tucker and Mom.”
“Like what Pru, do what exactly?” Dad asked.
She didn’t answer because she was counting to ten.
Having now only one direction to get off the bed because of Pru and me, Dad opted to roll slowly off the side of the bed and hoped to miss the open laptop below. (One out of two ain’t bad, I guess.) Laptop collision averted, but slowly roll? Not so much. Landing lacked…uh…grace.
Dad sprang up in a sitting position (hoping to display health and vigor to Pru), but Tucker and Mom were already entering the bedroom to see what had sounded like a horse being thrown to the ground.
Mom grilled Dad on why this was the second time recently of her finding him on the floor.
“Yoga channel. Don’t know what I was thinking,” he said.
Tucker checked him over and declared nothing broken, but a head injury couldn’t be ruled out.
I gave a long sigh at the loss of my privacy and quietude. Even Keira squeezed past Mom and tossed in her two cents that maybe the heat was getting to Dad.
“It may have cooked his brain,” Keira said, with all the seriousness of a daytime TV drama.
Mom (having had enough of the current distraction) signaled that it was time for our whole pack to make a trip outside. This gave Dad a chance to finish his date with gravity and join us.
Big clouds had moved in, and the wind had shifted to the north. The temperature was easing.
Dad came out, none the worse for wear, and dragged a chair into the shade. He called Pru over.
“What was so important when you bopped into the bedroom earlier?” Dad asked the attentive Maxi-Pin Pru.
Pru took exception.
“I don’t bop anywhere,” said she, with all the seriousness of a daytime drama. “I arrive. Like an arrow from an Apache’s bow.”
“Well, in the future try not to startle everyone so much with your arrivals.”
Pru calculated the odds of whether this was a hard and fast rule, or another semi-gooey suggestion. Ten to one in favor of a semi-enforced suggestion, she decided.
Arrows away. “I saw part of a dog trainer video on TV and the trainer said that one of the main reasons we four and two-leggeds miscommunicate is this really long word an-thro… an-thro poor… something-something.”
“Anthropomorphize?” Dad asked.
Pru spun in affirmation.
“What about it Pru?”
“Does our pack family anthro-poor-morph at all?” she demanded. “Because I think that could hinder training and stuff.”
Dad adopted his wise-father demeanor (which Pru is a total sucker for).
“Well Pru. Only two-leggeds can anthropomorphize when they attribute human qualities to four-leggeds’ behavior. I suppose some people can misunderstand a four-legged’s reason for a certain behavior. Our pack family, on the other hand? I can’t think of a single instance where I anthropomorphize. What about you Hazel, can you think of any instance of my attributing human qualities to you guys?”
I was busy trying to see what bush a lizard disappeared into and had been only half-listening to Pru and Dad.
“Nothing comes to mind.” I hoped that reply would do.
Pru seemed delighted with the conversation overall and ran off to tell Mom that we didn’t have to worry about that one big word.
“Nothing like setting the world right for a young mind. Right, Hazel?” Dad sounded self-satisfied.
“Nothing comes to mind, Dad.” It had worked once before, now where was that doggone lizard?
~ Hazel Bazel Rocket Dog ~
