Ok, I know this isn't a rant. "Praise" somehow doesn't go with "rant." But I'm not in a ranting mood, particularly when I view the object of my current affections--a small (12 pound), longhaired Jack Russell terrier named "Nita."
I used to be very scornful of anyone who owned a small dog. (Hell, I used to be more scornful in general before life and events scraped a little mercy into my soul.) How could they cradle that disgusting, furry creature in their arms, bringing them up to KISS them (ugh!), murmuring sweet nothings in doggese--"Wittle sweetums! Wittle yum-yums!"
But a few years ago my generous sister-in-law presented us with a white dog with a brown eye patch who unerringly tasted the moods in our house: if someone was sad, Nita would plant her front paws on our chests and lick our eyes. (This should be an "ugh!" but, trust me, it isn't.) If we were a tad manic, she'd out-manic us by performing what came to be known as "bullet-ass," running around the house, bounding over the sofas, and careening under the kitchen table, with her ass tucked under. It didn't matter how bad a mood you were in, bullet-ass would kick you out of it.
Then there's the wordless murmurings and furry kisses. I admit to inventing some new sound which I can only approximate as, "Wmmm-mmm, umm-meee," repeated at cozy intervals as the dog cocked her head and seemed to appreciate it. I hate to admit that I probably kiss this dratted dog more than any other significant other in my life. (Sorry, Rick!) There's something so loveable about a creature who does not ask for love, who puts up with great dignity a deluge of kisses and odd murmurings.
So, bite me! I am besotted of a tiny creature who has no language and cannot read Proust. Or directions. Or open child-proof bottles. But she sure is an expert on love.
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