I am thrilled beyond belief that my dog has stopped chewing my underwear. Sadly, however, she's begun chewing my socks and books. This is vaguely amazing - she only weighs 5 pounds, people! I have books that weigh considerably more than that, and yet she tries to ingest them. Ulysses alone must weigh at least 7 pounds. She could literally eat herself to death on James Joyce. What a horrible way to go....
Despite the fact that the damn dog is literally eating me out of house and home (and library), I don't know what I'd do around here without her. It just means so much to have someone to talk to. You don't think about it, but when you live alone you can go hours - sometimes whole days - without the need to ever say a word aloud. Talking to the dog might seem a little strange, but at least I'm speaking to an animate object. I'm not talking to the plants or the furniture, or a soccer ball with a handprint on it. Now that's crazy. And every day that she doesn't talk back is another day I know I haven't yet gone completely over the edge.
More than giving me someone to talk to, just having another warm body in the house - another presence, however slight - makes the loss of Matt's presence that much more bearable. And she's so damn loyal that I can honestly say I have not even so much as gone to the bathroom by myself since Matt left. She trots right along, happy as a clam to sit on the bathroom rug and wait till I'm finished. Once, she even joined me, peeing on the rug in contented companionship. How many human friends would go that far to make me feel better?
Uh-oh. Gotta go. I hear a telltale ripping sound coming from the other room. If it's my new Diana Gabaldon, I'm going to be really pissed.
If it's Ulysses - well, no sense in hurrying in to check.
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