My son, his wife, children and the au pair headed to Florida last week. The only family member who did not make the trip was Remus, the family dog.
“What happened to Remus,” I hear you ask.
My telephone rang last Wednesday. It was my son. He explained they were going to Florida on Friday and asked if I could keep the dog.
“What if I can’t?”
“Then, I will have to start looking for a place to board her.” He replied.
I suppose the place would charge money and might not give Remus the personal attention she might expect from family. I considered the problem for a moment and agreed to board the dog free while everyone else enjoyed time in the sun. They should enjoy guilt, too.
Remus is a sweet spirit. Half Border Collie, she is intelligent. Half Great Pyrenees, she is large. I think she weighs about 70 pounds, but I lack the curiosity to weigh her. I am willing to take my word for it. Besides, she is a good watchdog. When she hears any suspicious noise, she makes a loud, ferocious sounding bark. At the same time, she finds a hiding place behind something or under something else. She is a devout coward.Son Ben called again on Thursday to say they were leaving early Friday. He asked if they might deliver Remus that afternoon. “Sure,” I said. In ten minutes, they arrived with the dog, her kennel and a bag of kibble. Remus is not fond of changes of scenery. She practically erected the kennel herself and climbed inside, where she sank into a deep funk.
She seemed to say, “Go ahead and enjoy your vacation. I’ll be happy to lie here until I am dead, no matter how long it might take.”
Who could imagine a dog working in guilt? Not I, at least until now.
In the fullness of time, Remus decided to leave her box and take sustenance in the kitchen. “I hope I choke,” she thought.
Shortly after she ate, Mother Nature called. I watched her suffer, legs crossed, for a half an hour before she would admit she needed to go out. She walked grudgingly to the backdoor and stood looking at me over her shoulder. I opened the door, all the while making encouraging noises. “Gooood dawg!” I crooned.
It was then I noticed one of the squirrels that frequent my bird feeders chowing-down on seeds. In the spirit of good fun, I pointed to the squirrel and said “Sic em, Remus!” I had no reason to believe she knew what “Sic em” meant. To my complete surprise, she turned in the direction I pointed and trotted between two palms, directly toward the squirrel.
I might mention the squirrels who frequent my feeders are a brazen lot, not given to panic. They are also obese and a sad sight when seen waddling up and down tree trunks. Still, the sight of a large, flouncing dog crashing through the palms riveted the squirrel’s attention. It stood stock still atop the feeder, hoping to pass unnoticed. It worked for a few seconds.
Clear of the plants, Remus stopped within two feet of the squirrel and surveyed her surroundings. It was then she noticed the squirrel. Did I mention Remus has long fur like a collie? She also has large, floppy ears and a bushy tail. When she left the ground, all her fur, her ears and tail were flying in the breeze. She looked a bit like a dragon. The squirrel’s fur was short, but its tail stood straight up, brush-like. Both animals’ eyes seemed to bulge in surprise.
The squirrel made a desperate leap for safety atop the fence. Terrified, Remus pivoted 180 degrees in mid-air and seemed to fly back in the direction from which she came, landing precisely at the back door.
“Oh my God, did you see that? It was horrible!” She seemed to plead.
Me? I laughed until I was weak. Yes, I should be ashamed. No, I am not, really.
Remus is back in her kennel now. I do not know if she will ever come out.
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