Brindy's Thanksgiving Post

Because my family is busy in other rooms, I have snuck in here to the computer for a moment. I’m a guest blogger, if you will. My people don’t know I can do this, especially when they haven’t trimmed my toenails in a couple months. All I hear is, “Brindy, you’re making a racket walking around,” but it’s not like I can alleviate the problem.

There’s one issue with which I can deal. Deanna has never mentioned me by name in the months she’s been posting to Stories Happen. I’ve decided forgiveness is the doggy way, however, as I’m a patient soul. You would not believe how many times I’ve waited, for example, until everyone finally left the house before eating the cat food.

Today something’s up around here. I can smell tastiness and excitement, and I only hope Deanna, now in the kitchen peeling roundish, starchy things Tim dug from the garden, will forget to shut me in the utility room when other people arrive. But if she does banish me, maybe she’ll forget to bring in those dishes from the garage that came from the oven late last night making my mouth water as dreams of pumpkins and sugar danced in my head. And maybe I can at last squeeze through the garage cat door, gather my legs beneath me like Kaavik, the Wolf Dog and leap to glorious heights atop the workbench where gorged-tummy pie dreams will all come true.

I’ll scoot soon, because Tim’s got the fire going in the woodstove. My old teeth are chattering here at the computer, and Deanna might have something different cooking now. When she spills, I take full advantage. These days, though, I don’t hear her exclamations right away, and I miss some of the pre-mopped up goodness.

Okay, eating’s not really what life’s all about. I’m a wise old pup now, not so sharp anymore in the hearing department, a bit fuzzier to see you with, but I still guard my family with my life (no squirrel enters this yard without danger of a good chase--well, these days maybe a deafening bark from behind the sliding door’s glass, because it’s wearing on my hips to hop out there every time). I’ve made this home secure, and when anyone new was allowed in I’ve made them think twice about braving slobber-coverage in the future.

Edna, Deanna’s grandma, took me in as a wee puppy, no bigger than your hand, and named me Brindy for my brindle sort of coloring. I miss her... quite a gal.

Deanna used to take me jogging with her. We ran like a bronzed athlete and her Iditarod champion. Well, we circled the sewage treatment plant with something like grace in our strides. We both spend more time indoors now, Deanna only running on her loud, electric thing that Tim surprised her with on her birthday. She loves it, because her hips are less reliable now, too.

Oops, I’m really outta here. Westley the cat is sidling up to this chair--it’s precarious already, and he wants to write about his gruesome exploits. Some animals get to go outside the fence, never get plopped in the tub for a bath--well, I’ll tell you more later! I think Deanna just spilled some gravy.

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