11 October 2006
Strangler, my first dog, used to wake me up to be let out into the yard in the darkest hours of the Canadian night by circling around the bedroom like Prime Minister Harper might if he were to wake up with drool on his thin lips after dreaming about having sex with Preston Manning. I did not mind Strangler's odd sleeping habits because it gave me a chance to look out on my fast decaying neighbourhood in the red and blue lit night.
Ranger, my second dog, used to pick up his dinner bowl and drop it on the kitchen floor to let me know he wanted out. I do not know how many times I was dreaming about making sweet love to a barefoot Anne Murray in the Nova Scotian night only to have my love lie limp as Ranger's dog bowl rolled around the kitchen linoleum.
The Hammer has no patience with me at all. She jumps up on the side of the bed and licks my face off to get me moving. If that does not work she jams her big, cold nose under my neck and flicks my head like a soccer ball.
Fucking dogs. I love them.