Poor Gunther Dog ... little is known of the plight of the Middle Aged dog living with Older Adults who don't Play nearly as much as they once did in the Fourth Quarter. It took us awhile to find out why he needed to be rescued in the first place ... 8+ years ago from some quick-kill shelter in KY. It's no wonder Sarah Palin was concerned about "death panels" .... and we older folk are concerned about going in to nursing homes. But Gunther, as we were to name him after a fallen colleague, must've gotten himself into trouble. He hated men or maybe it was the other way around ... maybe he came to hate men who hated him. We'll never know.
In any case, Gunther has developed a night and morning ritual. He spends the night in a chair that sat in Marsha's parents' den and gets there as soon as he has his evening pee and is told that it's time to go upstairs. Gunther, I should point out, isn't walked ... he goes out in the yard, alone ... pees alone and returns to several words that he knows (he's originally from Kentucky .... Shoulda called him Daniel Boone or something): "Gunther ... wanna go upstairs."
Gunther flies up the stairs and looks down ... "Hey, you comin'?"
Then, he climbs on the bed and gets looked at by his adoptive Mother and jumps onto his chair for the night.
Morning comes and Gunther waits patiently until I shower and dress ... oh! and I get to pee, as well. He looks at me pitifully, especially if I'm struggling to get my pants on ... "Poor Old Man with a bad back." Gunther has a troubling oedipal complex and clearly prefers children and his Mom to me but in the morning, I feed him and let him back out into the yard before his breakfast.
He has a certain ritual, though; he has his ways. He begrudgingly climbs off the chair and follows me in the dark room into the lit hall where he walks to the top of the stairs and sits. If I do not come and pay homage to the Great One (all 40 pounds of the mangey mutt) by stroking his head, he refuses to begin his descent. I must scratch his head and invite His Majesty the Dog down for breakfast and then ... and then ...
The SOB shows his stuff ... Without missing a footfall, he descends the stairs .... in a blurry (to his myopic Dad) motion ... left-front with right-rear blending into right-front with left-rear into left-front with right-rear, etc. Show-off! Proving a point!
"I'm a mind to just feed you dog food, this morning ... then see who is boss."
Oh! The shame of envying one's dog.
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