Over and over, I used to say, “My next dog is going to be so dumb.” I usually said it right after Daisy had done something unbelievable, like escape the daycare kennel or steal things from the top of the fridge, or sleep on top of the kitchen table for maximum sun exposure. (She also ate all the pies at Thanksgiving, literally climbed a tree, and we’re just scratching the surface here, friends.)
My next dog was going to be so dumb.
And somehow, I just know that Daisy is in doggy heaven (funny story, I don’t think I believe in heaven for people, just for dogs, which is a real ecclesiastical dilemma, but neither here nor there) looking down on me and going, “I found you a REAL dummy, Mama. You’re welcome. Bet you miss me now.”
And I do. And I’m grateful — if sometimes frustrated — that she sent us a dog so dumb, she doesn’t know how to do anything but adore everyone and everything that crosses her path. A dog so dumb, she has no idea when she’s annoyed another dog. A dog who, for the life of her, does not understand why she cannot sleep on the peoples’ faces.
Who, when my brain goes to increasingly terrible places, is content to lay on my chest until I can breathe again. Who knows that the surefire way to make The Lady smile is to “hambone” on the floor when I wake up in the morning. (This is what we call it when she begs for belly rubs on the floor with a wild grin.) Who snores. SNORES. AT TOP VOLUME.
We have signed on to be Denim’s hired staff. The boss is demanding, but the pay is oh-so-good.
Welcome to the family, Denim Bayley. We love you, too.