I thought I would start with the photo tonight of Simon and me in the big dad chair. I thought it might inspire me; instead it just depresses me. I look like a possum caught in headlights, waiting to be hit.
Actually, it feels like a "creature features" night, though suddenly I am not certain what that means. Two days ago when Simon and I did our long walk, we actually did two walks. Just as we arrived home, Mary was loading up the other 3 dogs to take them for a bit of a walk. Simon and I decided to join them, even though it was getting dark, and we had been walking for a long while. Not the wisest decision I have ever made. I could hardly get out of bed the next day. I don't know about Simon, but he seemed rather knackered all day too.
During the first walk, down Center to the Log House, I let Simon choose the direction once we got down there, or at least I let him think he was. When Simon is directing things, we always cross the street at the Log House and meander down the sidewalk on the far side and through the college parking lot. There are various trash recepticals along the way, a mailbox, a fire hydrant, and a number of formal flower beds that he loves to sniff and explore. His principle for choosing the direction almost certainly involves his nose.
For example, when I stopped to pick up the second pile of poo, we were back along the main highway across from the hospital, Estill St., I think. There used to be a motel there, but it was torn down a year or so ago. Some of the parking lot remains, but the rest of the area is fairly large and green. While Simon was waiting, he must have smelled good smells coming from that area, for he immediately went for the tires on several of the parked cars and then on past them to the green field or large yard behind the parking area. I followed, curious to see where we would end up. We made it down to the shrub line which must be heaven for a dog; Simon sniffed the whole line, though we had to turn right for a while to get to the back yards behind the field. It was high adventure, especially when we found ourselves in someone's back yard with children's toys scattered about. Fearing we would be either yelled at or arrested for trespassing, I hurried us through the yard and back out on to Center street. Simon seemed to have a great time leading, and the weather was still delightful. He didn't even fuss when we turned toward home.
The thing is, I have recently discovered, Simon and I know one another and almost always cooperate with one another. What makes me so aware of the nature of our relationship is the presence of Schuster, who does not know me, even after all this time and is unsure in his "cooperations." He follows me into the kitchen, presumably to see if I will give him a treat, but he is not comfortable with me. Simon is. In the photo, Simon is on my right side. Earlier this evening he moved to the left side when I went to fix a bowl of cereal. Since there is a tray attached to the arm on the left side of the chair, I needed Simon to move back to the right so I could set down the bowl. I patted the right arm twice; Simon knew what I wanted and quickly changed sides.
Later in the evening he jumped down to get a drink. When he was finished he went to the kitchen door and barked. But I know Simon. He didn't want out, he wanted me to get up so that he could come back, jump up on the chair, and settle down on the left side. I got up, he trotted in to the room from the kitchen, jumped up on the chair and settled down on the left side. I am an ambidextrous dog petter; I can stroke his back with either hand, right side or left side. It is all good to me!
Sometimes, late at night, he will, apparently, get tired of the chair and go to the sofa where his blankets are. Mary's regular evening place is the sofa, just as mine is the chair. Sometimes she's asleep there, sometimes Dexter is also there, stretched out asleep. What's a little needy dachshund to do when all the space is taken? He will put his feet on the sofa at the far end where Mary is, look over at me and spear me with "the look," and bark loudly, once, just like at the kitchen door. I oblige. I get up, go over to the sofa, pick him up and put him down in the middle behind Mary and against the back where he can burrow under a blanket. Oh, "the look" is the one that says, "You know what I want, so get over here and do it!" He knows that I do know.
I think it is true to say that I know him to the extent that he has become part of me, an extension of myself. Should he die before me, there will be a part of myself that dies too, or at least that is empty. I love the other three dogs, but with Simon the bond is deeper, and the best word to describe it at this late hour is that we know one another. Knowing in that sense, for me, means love. I love the little dog; thus, I know who he is and what he means. That knowledge is always open to surprise and development and continued understanding on both sides.
Unfortunately, I also know that the little stinker would rather sleep on the sofa under his blanket than in bed with us, though he will often come back to the bedroom in the early morning and bark once to be put in bed. Mary has to attend to that bark for I hardly ever wake up.