A spat with my dog

 

Can't believe I yelled at this sweet thing. On the other hand,
I can't believe how she threw herself at my bed in anger.
Shame on both of us.

This afternoon, Sophie and I had a stand-off. A terrible battle. She went outside just when I wanted to nap and wouldn’t come in. Jacob happened along and between him and a bribe of cheese, I got her inside. She ate her cheese and immediately wanted to go back outside. I knew, because she’d been outside for long enough to take care of needs, she didn’t have a bathroom issue. I also knew she wanted to go outside and eat grass. I wanted to nap.

There ensued a half-hour battle in which she did her little dance clicking her nails on the wood floor, barked, growled, threw herself at my bed, and did all kinds of things. I responded in an unladylike manner, telling her “No!” in a loud voice, even telling her she was a bad dog—how could I? Thank goodness she doesn’t understand the words, though she got the tone of voice. I yelled, she barked. I tried to put myself in a trance, because I figured if I gave in, I was reinforcing bad behavior. On the other hand, if she’s ten years old and willful, am I too late trying to change her behavior? Or mine?

Finally, disgusted, I let her out and said a prayer that no dognapers chose a sunny, pretty Saturday afternoon for their nefarious activities. I crawled back into my bed but of course sleep wouldn’t come. At some point, I heard her come in and lie by my bed, though when I got up, she was in the living room.

I think we were both ashamed of ourselves. We both know better than to behave like that, and we are both too old for such. I was afraid my irregular heartbeat was banging off the walls. But later, on the patio, she and I made friends, and she came willingly to me for love. Maybe we are both allowed our bad behavior moments.

It was a glorious evening on the patio. Longtime friends Carol and Lon came for supper. Well, I had invited them, but they ended up bringing the supper. I had fixed a seven-layer salad—if you don’t know what that is, you’re too young. Carol and I talked about it and both agreed our mothers never made it. Somewhere along the way, I learned to make it and appreciate. Carol, less interested in cooking than I am, never made it. But the prize was they brought fried chicken (from Drew’s Place, quite probably the best soul food fried chicken in town), fresh fruit, bread and butter. We had a delicious dinner.

Carol and Lon and I have so many interests in common that an evening with them provides me with the kind of conversation that I spend much of my time longing for—a lot of politics (we’re all on the same indignant page), some philosophical talk about aging, and a bit of gossip. There are not many people with whom you can share opinions so freely, so an evening with them is a special bonus for me.

Lon was for many years a representative in the Texas Legislature, so he knows his way around causes. He is also a man of passions—environmental protection and climate change, voting rights, fair elections—a lot of the liberal causes I care so much about. Carol, a trained archivist with a master’s in library science, is so knowledgeable about architecture and historic structures and related history that I hardly know where to begin to say how important she is to my work. She has proofread and edited for me, written books for TCU Press when I was there, and solved many a historical question about several of my projects. I count on Carol to keep me historically honest and well documented. Beyond those professional associations, they are friends I have cherished for thirty years. A nice evening.

They have toddled off into the darkness now, and I have done the few dishes. The patio door is still open, because the temperature is lovely. As Lon pointed out, too early for mosquitoes. A perfect Texas spring evening.