No Guests in 2020!
I’m Ruth’s Office Manager. She’s fretting about joy this Thanksgiving. I offered to be her Writer in Residence to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving. Since I don’t have much time to write this, I may jump around, like when we walk.
Every year Thanksgiving brings the family together, which is hair-raising, and I don’t have much hair. The little kids seem to want to rub noses with me. They don’t realize I might want to check their cheeks for peanut butter. Sometimes I growl a little at them and they act like I bit them. “Mom, he growled at me!” You’d growl, too, if I licked your face. But I don’t bite. I don’t have all my teeth.
Mom found the Halloween decorations in the garage and set the dining table with little pumpkins. Why? I wondered. Maybe people don’t celebrate Halloween in Houston. The only time I see people around here is when I must bark to notify the lawn guys of my presence or announce an Amazon delivery. They hear me admonishing them for invading my yard. The delivery people think I’m huge; I use my big dog voice.
This week the big box appeared again to change the décor for Thanksgiving. Now she has her fall paperweights and some candles and stuff on the dining table. Maybe we’ll have company. We haven’t had guests, except for the two sons and their families for months. Another son lives far away and when she talks with him, her shoulders slump. “I know it’s the right decision not to visit,” she said. When she talks with their two teenagers, her eyes dance, and her laughter touches my heart.
The “girls” who attend nearby colleges may be at the big house where my dog-cousin lives. Maybe everyone will wear masks. Quite a trend this year. Masks. I’m surprised I don’t wear one.
Abby, the golden lab, likes me. Last year we went to the nearby baseball field to run and play on Thanksgiving. I ran much faster than Abby, way faster. But I made a mistake. I kept running. They had a hard time catching me.
This year has been so strange. I was adopted ten years ago from a pleasant foster home. I looked through the fence with a few other pups. “Can I go home with you?” I asked quietly. I love my furrever home. Mom takes me for two walks a day. She even took me in the rain the other day because I don’t like to make a mess in our little back yard and I hate, hate, hate to get wet.
Sometimes people on our walks ask Mom if I’m a Doberman Pincher puppy. I fool them, as no, I’m full grown with satiny black ears that are too big for my small head. I’m not one of those fancy New York dog show dogs, but I’m told I’m a Manchester Terrier. Brave, but not big, just thirteen pounds.
One good thing that’s happened this year: the neighbors meet on a driveway on our street, weekly for a “happy hour.” Some neighbors bring their dogs. I get to sniff everyone, including the other dogs and make friends when neighbors arrive. The adults sit six feet from each other and bring their own chairs and drinks. No one acts silly. Just gentle conversation.
The community is perfect for dog walking with the beautiful trees and flowers for me to water on our walks. It’s rare that the owners forget to clean up after their pups. We’ve lived three places, since I was adopted. This is the best. So many dogs…such wonderful smells! Mom says she doesn’t like the moldy smell of Houston sometimes.
When mom said she couldn’t think of much to say, I don’t understand. I told Mom I’d write her Thanksgiving message for her friends. I’m happy she encouraged me to assume the “Writer-in-Residence” title. Maybe she’ll let me write again.
Soooo-HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
I’m thankful for my home and family. May the big dogs not bite you and the small ones not get fleas!
Love and face licks,
Fargo