Crazy old dog lady

 

Sophie waiting for company.

Now I’ve done it. I have successfully defined myself as a crazy old dog lady. And it’s all Sophie’s fault for being the extraordinarily smart dog she is. I know most dog owners will tell you theirs is the smartest dog, but I really mean it with Soph. After all, she’s a deliberate cross of a miniature poodle and an Australian shepherd.

For one thing, she has an inner clock that would put the world clock to shame. She knows to the minute when it is time to start reminding me, gently at first and then more forcefully, when it is time for her to eat. Since some days she eats seven times (small snacks, to coordinate her insulin shots), that’s a lot to keep track of. But she does it.

There’s nothing Soph likes better than company. I guess she gets bored with my company. Happy hour is her happiest time of day, and she’s been known to sit staring at the gate, waiting to see who shows up. When someone arrives, almost anyone, she is convinced they came specifically to see her.

It’s that urge to party that made me look like a crazy lady. We have learned, through hard lesson, that Sophie knows when I leave her to go off the property. Then I can get away with, “Be good. We’ll be right back.” Colin has been known to say, “No, we’re never coming back,” but she knows he’s teasing her.

But there’s no fooling her when I go into the main house for a party—and she is not going to be left behind, if she has to tear down a door. It’s taken two people to accomplish it, and then I was worried the whole time I was inside. So now I just take her. With maybe four guests, its fine. She calms right down, prowls under the dining room table for crumbs, and sometimes sleeps peacefully.

But last night was a party for Christian’s birthday, with a max of thirty people expected. That’s a lot of coming and going through the front door, and one of our fears is that she’ll slip out. In her younger days, Sophie had a wild urge to head north to Canada. These days, I think she’s realizes she has it pretty good where she is and won’t play door dash, but none of us want to take a chance. The other thing is that, unsupervised, she’d love to graze the buffet table, clean any plates left on low tables, and generally make a nuisance of herself in search of food. Since her diabetes diagnosis, she takes just enough prednisone to make her ravenous all the time.

So I took her leash inside with me. When guests arrived last night, there I sat,  leash in hand. Sophie strained to greet each new person and was generally rewarded with some gesture of affection. These wee mostly people who have visited in the cottage and know and love both of us (how blessed I am! And I love them each and all). So each would stop, speak with Sophie, give her a hug, and then move on to hug me.

But there were a few outliers, people that don’t know us well, and I suddenly realized, siting there, they must think I am one of those crazy old ladies who can’t go anywhere without her dog. The kind who carry the dog in a purse or shopping bag. The kind who have small dogs for support dogs. Believe me, it’s the other way around—I was supporting Sophie’s people addiction. Of course, no one said anything, and everybody was kind to Sophie, so this categorization of me could be all in my imagination. But I am attached to that little creature.

And if I look at her and ask, “Are you ready to go home?” her ears perk up and she hads for the back door. Party’s over. For us, it ends pretty early, and we are both happy to be back in the quiet of our cottage.

Party's over.