Who's your mommy?

When I give Murphy something she really wants, like her morning turkey-patty thing that she now craves, or her toast, I say to her: "Whose your mommy?"  As in, who takes care of you?

She is my responsibility.  It is my job to make sure she gets what she needs, is comfortable, happy, and of course, healthy.  Sometimes, as she ages, it is hard to know what makes her happy.  In her younger days it was easy.  Food, runs, pigs ears, tennis ball throw, sleep.  Now she spends a good portion of the morning wandering the house, barking, looking for something.  I get frustrated with myself, that somehow I can not figure out what it is she wants.  Or can't understand that maybe she wants nothing, but is having a hard time dealing with her body, changing, aging, slowing down, hurting.  In some ways I am envious of her, being able to express the frustration of growing old.  There are days I want to bark at my body, too.

I feed her twice a day.  Nowdays, I sit on the floor and hand feed her, making sure she eats enough, keeps some weight on.  Labs have such soft mouths, and she gently takes kibble from me, practically leaving no trace of her grasp on my fingers.  Aside from sleeping, it is our moment together, where we trust.  Hopefully she knows, through each handful, that I am there, I am always there.  I am her mommy.

Murphy's day.

Subsequent to writing this entry, I read Verlyn Klinkenborg's piece in Tuesday's New York Times.  He is one of my favorite writers.  Here is a citation to today's piece: www.nytimes.com/opinion  Look for Verlyn's column from Tuesday, 19 February, entitled When Things Go Wrong.