How to Detach Oneself from a Velcro Dog . . .
My dog and I are one.
It’s not by choice. At least not mine, that is.
She’s a cling on.
Which is why I find myself sitting at my keyboard attemptng to write a post about brussels sprouts, yet rather am consumed with thoughts about what to do with our über clingy pooch, even as she’s sprawled across my toes this very minute.
Upon our return from Florida last weekend, I dumped the contents of our suitcases onto the family room floor. We had packed lightly, so most of the clothes were dirty, and all were bound for the washer. Darks went here, lights went there, whites were flung way, way over there.
And my pooch watched me sort the laundry with the laser beam focus of a Rhodes Scholar.
Next, a trip to the washroom was in order, meaning that despite the fact that I was in a house devoid of all other humans, I felt compelled to close the door because my tilted-head dog was trying her darnedest to understand what was occurring when, frankly, it wasn’t any of her doggone business.
After my less-than-private bathroom break, I scanned through some recipes, composed a grocery list, recycled the junk mail, scraped petrified egg yolk splatters off of the granite countertop, loaded the dishwasher, and then took a moment to straighten my spices so that they were lined up in alphabetical order, their labels facing forward, convincing myself that creating spice jar alignment verging on OCD behavior was actually critical for emergency situations where a dish needed a dash of this or a pinch of that STAT!
Soon, it became apparent that, more than having a sincere desire to tidy up the joint, I was doing everything I could to avoid having to walk down the basement stairs to greet my long lost friend, madam treadmill. So I stopped with the nonsensical spice sprucing, and threw myself down the stairs.
And my pooch followed me.
She plopped herself down right in front of the glass-paneled basement door that I had shut behind me, resolute in her role of self-appointed guardian: all menacing thirteen pounds of her.
Forty five minutes later, after duking it out with various pieces of exercise equipment, I dragged myself back up to the land of the living only to see my faithful companion waiting patiently right where I had left her.
How intertwined the two of us have become. I love her to death, but frankly, it feels as if this relationship has gotten a tad unhealthily. A tad, I don’t know, claustrophobic maybe.
Am I alone in this plight? This person-worshipping dog phenomenon? This canine “me and my shadow” routine?
Should I tell her how I feel? Maybe a heart to heart about personal space and independence is all that’s needed.
Our dog is a Havanese. They’re often called “Velcro dogs” since they tend to select one member of the household as their go-to guy or gal, and then stick to them like, well, Velcro. Which is all fine and dandy, until, that is, it isn’t.
If I move to the kitchen to cook, she’s right there licking up any scraps I happen to drop.
If I get in the car, she calls shotgun.
If I go to take a shower, she’s right behind me, which, honestly, feels rather invasive.
And if I go to Europe over the summer. . . hmm.
What to do?
Perhaps I should take out an ad:
Wanted, house sitter/garden waterer/dog watcher. Must be able to endure 24/7 scrutiny in return for 24/7 affection.
Photo courtesy of: awesome inventions.com