With the first peek of daylight, Miss Lettie wakes up, and I must say, my doggie doesn't exactly go, gentle into that good day. Her heart is in her tail wag. She has a big tail and wags it a lot. Tail thumping, vaccination and name tags forcefully jingling, she licks and scratches herself in the nether parts of her body.
It may only be six o'clock, but with that conglomeration of motions, all too soon it's go outside time for my lady companion. While her early morning ablutions are being done, I am in the kitchen preparing a doggie breakfast. A warm breeze brushes Lettie Lou's coat as I open the back door and set her food out. Dog business taken care of for the moment, I then slide back under the bed covers for a few more minutes of rest. All too soon, sharp, yappy barks speak, "Let me in, my lady." Sighing, arms out for balance, once again I slow walk to the back door. Her hips twisting through the now open door, Lettie Lou bounds into the room.
With these familiar routines, our day has begun; two females settle in. One stares up enticingly, the other yawns, sips her coffee, then glances down. I will make no bones about this; Lettie Lou, my four-pawed, wetnosed, big girl doggie, doesn't want to let me out of her sight.
My pet is full of hope and unconditional love.
Every time I look into her eyes, I can see all the way to her heart. Because I'm somewhat of an imperfect creature, I hope to even partially measure up to the trust shining through those dark soulful eyes.
Lettie Lou paw-rakes her nearby, favorite, comfort toy, a rawhide bone, and begins chewing. "It's easy to make me happy," she says. "Just let me lie on the nearby sofa where I can watch you or at your feet where I can look up and see you."
Everything seems to be alright in her world.
I must now confess though --all is not moonlight and roses with the two of us. The dog days of summer are gone. I'd still like to stroll, huff and puff over the country club roads and the golf course and stride the long miles with Lettie like I did my other dogs, June Cleaver, the Roo Roo and short-legged, Petey Poo. But being as how I'm now, more than a little, somewhat up in years, I can't turn back the clock hands and hit those highways and byways. Since this is not to be, with nothing much going on in her world, my live-in-companion spends most of her waking hours either by my feet or on the den couch, with eyes half-cocked on me, the two of us sitting through long, tiresome, ho-humming, TV hours.
Just to make sure she gets a few minutes of much-needed exercise, several times a day I throw a squeaky, squeezy tennis ball down the hall for her to run, grab, and bring back to me. It's an imperfect world and I am not guilt free. I don't do it as long or as often as I should.
The main goal in Lettie Lou's life, is to be with and to please her person; her world is a delightful place when we are together. If I leave her to go to the store or points between, when I return and walk through the back door, an ecstatic creature, waits to greet me. Barking out cheerful tunes, eyes sparkling, her tail slapping my legs or dusting the floor, I'm welcomed as if I've been gone for days instead of a couple of hours.
Come nighttime, the happy critter lies down to sleep on the far side of my bed. Often, out of the blue, she eases on up the mattress until she's close beside me. I feel a cold, damp nose against my cheek; smelling slightly of burnt toast, a warm gush of dog breath brushes against my face. Soon we slip back into dreamland until early morning creeps through the doors and windows.
This is our slightly ho hum daily routine. The closest to heaven on earth that Lettie Lou gets is either when friend Kelly Howard walks her several times a week or when my daughter-in-law Gail, who lives in Tennessee, comes to spend a few days with us. Unbroken tranquility is tossed out the back door then; daily adventure has come into a doggie world.
When Gail walks in from the garage, eager for action and bouncing with delight, Lettie Lou swivels in joyful circles. "She's here, she's here, the other fun person's here," my doggie could be singing, her body hopping with expressions of excitement. "Fun fun, fun. Let's run, run, run."
Usually with us for several days, Gail hitches Lettie Lou to her leash and they take long, joyful, morning and afternoon walks. Back home from their jaunts, pleased with the world, safe, sound, and satisfied, Lettie Lou then plops at my feet. The weight of a worn out doggie head often falls often into the palms of my outstretched hands; with, 'Been there, done that,' relieved grunts.
But oh, if Kelly's out of town, or when it's go home time for Gail, and she rolls her suitcase out the back door, thereby hangs another tail--oops—I mean tale. My doggie has separation anxiety. Oh yes.
Yearning for an encore, her eyes glazed, Lettie Lou curls up into a fetal position, so still she could be a large, furry, shelf dog, much as she does when I walk out the door. Except this lasts longer. And, I think it depresses her more.
Truth to tell, I've kinda toyed with the idea of asking my vet or a few of my dog-owning friends a very deep, heartfelt, question.
"Do any of y'all have the email address or the telephone number for a dog psychiatrist—one trained in treating, Separation Anxiety?"
