Tuesday, June 7, 2011
No matter where I go in life, I find dogs. Or, they find me, I'm not sure exactly which.
Maybe because I've always been around them, almost from the moment I was born, when my father, after taking me home from the hospital, dipped me down over the back of our landlord's magnificently amiable Great Dane in the first of many such encounters to ensure my comfort around animals. He said that even in my amorphous infant state, something in my eyes lit up whenever I saw that animal, and like a moth to a flame, I'd reach out my chubby infant arms to grab hold of the glossy grey fur and cling so tightly, he'd eventually have to pry my hands off the dog. Once I was able to walk, I could finally attach myself to the Dane at will, gripping the fur of his neck and babbling happily alongside him as he patiently allowed me to "walk" him in our yard.
Dogs remain one of my life's primary preoccupations. So much so, that I can't help but seek them out. Like this fella here. Boxer and I hadn't been at the spa for five minutes when I spotted him, and of course we had to instantly go over and say hello. His name is Quasar and he's a Leonberger, a breed I've never heard of but wow is it beautiful, and his owner, in her pride over owning such a beautiful creature, was marvelous about letting us ooh and aah over him. Quasar, whose mind you could tell was really on stalking the property's many cotton-tailed bunnies anyway, was equally fine with us ruffling his big ol' head and assaulting him with nonsensical baby-talk.
And if you've guessed from that point on, we spent a great deal of our time waiting for Quasar to grace us with his presence (and me figuring out how to bribe his owner into letting me take him home), you'd be right.