Mom bought a ginormous box in cow-barn red for me. After investigating my box, I concluded it’s perfect for me to play, have friends over & for sleeping. The added feature of a hole in each corner for me to hide my bones made me ecstatic. My Mama is too good to me.
Even though the words “fish house” were bantered around during purchase & the field placement of my box, I didn’t pay it much mind cuz I was filled with exuberant joy, plus I couldn’t find any fish being housed in my box. The scary way my fish acted while onshore causes me to believe no fish would be comfortable in a house. Besides, My Mama bought this for me, her faithful companion, not for some slimy, stinky fish. In my mind, I kept singing the little ditty called “It’s mine, It’s mine,” until, sadly, Moms made it crystal clear that the entire box space was mainly for Mom to play & sleep. Meaning she would be comfortable while I’d be relegated to a tiny postage stamp-sized corner. My living space is the exact dimensions of my bed. Am I OK with my meager allotment of elbow room?
Come on, people, I’ve got 4-elbows! They all need room to move & groove. Mom thinks that as long as I can fit my entire 100 lb. body on the dog pillow, that’s all the space a big ol’ boy like me needs. I beg to differ, but all that begging makes no difference to Mom. She can be highly steadfast at times. I spend way more time outside than Momma does, so I’ll adapt to inside limits.
Naturally, My Mama had to put her style of living through the entirety of my previously beautiful empty box. It took me a while before I realized she was turning my box into a warm haven for us to ride out the Minnesota chill. Even though we will only occupy the heated box for the months leading up to our departure south, Mom wanted to add a bed, closet, kitchen, bathroom, writing area & color to my box, I mean our home. Color meant paint, which meant ladders, which meant I had to have a serious chat with Mom.
I said, “Mom, I know when your working on construction stuff, you like to blast music. I also know that you have uncontrollable butt wiggles when listening to blasted music. So, for your safety & ability to continue to feed me, I implore you to turn off the music when you are ladder climbing.”
Did My Mama understand me? Yup. Did she heed my concern? Nope. Luckily Mom was sure-footed & there aren’t any stories of ladder-climbing, butt-wiggling mishaps.
Cautioning Mom to wear glasses while descending dark steps was a lecture I failed to give. During an episode of cat-sitting, Mom misjudged the steps, fell & broke her foot! Mom’s new name? Limp-along. Interestingly since she’s been navigating life with a foot-encased boot, she doesn’t rub or mention her sometimes irritable low back. Humm…
During this construction phase, My Mama’s dad was sent to the hospital for weakness due to Covid. Dad, usually a fighter, decided to fight no more. He died peacefully after a long, eventful & filling life. His family’s sadness was less heartfelt when they acknowledged his quality of life was severely compromised.
But let’s get back to me; as you can imagine, I have weeks’ worth of stores to be told, like:
- Jail-Time Mug Shots
- My 1st night away from My Mama
- Amazing Dog Helps Construction Workers
- Viewpoint? was I helpful or a hindrance while collecting the cold box
- Dog Music
I keep telling Mama she needs to be consistent with the timing of my blogs. She tells me to “Hush-up; she’ll tell my stories when she’s good & ready.” I think Ms. Limp-along has turned into Ms. Snarky smarty-pants!