He breathes so loudly that we can't sleep
in the same room. His legs so short I have to
lift his heavy body to go anywhere. I envision
a day when I am no longer able to do this and
keep working out and going to yoga so that I
stay healthy longer. My dog is saving my life.
We have his dog house in the living room.
Actually the living room section of my train car
roomette I live in attached to the barn garage out in
the country. Sounds horrible until I tell you it is
rent free. And nice. I come downstairs in the morning
for my cup of coffee and vanilla creamer. If I talk to
him he is up and mouthing off and talking back.
He has no sense of balance and can't just say good
morning. He goes on and on telling me things I
don't understand about his dreams or fears or
wants and needs. I finally tell him to be quiet.
Please be quiet. Now.
If I just stroke his little head he wakes up and finally
comes out and stretches his downward dog yoga
position and waits for me to put on my hooded
jacket. This morning he was unusually quiet. He
had accidentally (I believe) gotten trapped in the
garage part of the barn, and when I found him he
really let me have it. So he and the male Aussie
200 feet from my front door which is nearly
impossible lately for me to get to. I journal in the
morning and ask God questions. "God, why can't I
get to the gym?" My hand writes "Because you are
lazy." I believe God channels my hand through my
thoughts. It makes me feel better to believe this.
That somehow the truth will come out of my
subconscious or my conscious denial and set me
Once on the treadmill I turn to locate the dogs'
positions. My dog in the far corner behind the
third cardio machine. Hiding. Wiley is behind
me against the wall and I imagine I lose my footing
and am catapulted backwards and land on top of
him and break his back and he looks at me with
these eyes that can't imagine I am the last person
he will see alive. But that's not what's happening.
Usually my dog is at the treadmill, waiting for me
to finish. This morning he sulks and hides. I cut
my work out short and jingle the zipper on my
hooded jacket. Nothing. He doesn't move. I call
his name and go to the door. No response.
I pick him up and put him outside. Maybe his
feet are cold. I can't read his mind and he
doesn't speak english so we are at an impass.
Maybe he's tired. He usually climbs into his house
around 8 PM and I go upstairs to watch TV in bed.
But lately I've been downstairs until 10 or 11 PM and
I can tell by his mood that he would rather I be gone.
He loves me but hey, he's got his own schedule and
when it's time to go to bed he goes to bed without a
lot of fanfare. Just plops down on his pillow under
his red roof. So now, because of his unusually quiet
morning, because of his heretofore inability to sit
still during my workout which he seems to be able
to do now, I think something is wrong.