Agitated, Chunk tugs and pulls at the maroon blanket. Pausing to listen to the aggressive manifold of the truck passing our house, he resumes smoothing the blanket to lie upon. The pelting of the rain causes him to cease his work and he burrows his head in response to the deluge. Ears erect like the Eiffel Tower, he cleans himself, as if the rain has reminded him to bathe.
My dog is skittish. Whether it be rain or gunfire, Chunk, at his heart, is a coward.
His black eyes look around the room, scanning every item as if to memorize their place. Then he lays his head upon the maroon blanket, resigned that the rain is not going to cease anytime soon. There is movement on the couch, and Chunk appears to the right of my seat. Front paws down, Chunk looks at me attentively, seeking some form of affection. Butt in the air, stub of a tail wagging furiously back and forth, Chunk is convinced it is time to play.
Sternly, I tell him no. I am busy writing, he must wait until I am done before we can snuggle. Like a petulant child, he wanders back to his blanket, and begins to snore. He reminds me of a friend who visits me sometimes. Both remind me of permanently exhausted pigeons. He is back, standing close to see if there is room on my lap for, he and the computer. There isn’t. He walks back to the blankets for the last time, and like a spoiled child, proceeds to snub me.
I can’t help but smile. Chunk is my faithful companion; he is Watson to my Sherlock. Regardless of how my day starts or ends, I know I am loved by Chunk. For now, that is all I need.
Until we meet again,
12 February 2020