Why I’m a dog person

I am a dog person. No I don’t profess to have any unusual parts, per se, that would make me a ‘dog-person’ say like oversized floppy ears or a stick-on, one-piece black nose that I like to shove up people’s crotches,

but i have, rather, an affinity for dogs, a love, a special place in my heart-space that smiles quietly when I see or rather feel the happy, goofy soul of a dog. Now that that I’ve highlighted the chasm between the literal and figurative …I can go on.

I like dogs because I was raised with dogs. And being raised with dogs means that you experience dogs in different ways and at different ages. If you are lucky, a single dog, or group of dogs are raised along with you. They actually become your family. I have lain on a wooden floor staring into the blackness of a dalmation’s eyes, feeling humor, a sense of incredible intelligence and yet the mystery of what they were thinking…and it was amazing. I appreciated as a seven year old the fact that my dalmation, Cee-Cee RooKoo never once protested through bark or even sneer while I used her back as an imaginary indian elephant for Barbie and Ken on thier wedding day in India.

I often wondered what Cee-Cee thought as I posed them kissing under an umbrella held by my neighbor and snarky playmate Yvette Lopez.

Yellow eyes, or so I thought....

She had yellow eyes a Honduran accent and loved to give me indian burns. Cee Cee would lay close, enjoying the cold hard floor, often assisting me in my Mattel / tropical / wedding fantasy, (Barbie and Ken married many times), humoring me most times for about 20 minutes and then suddenly jumping up sending my plastic lovers flying frighteningly near my easy-bake oven!

I knew that Cee-Cee had had it. Something called. Mother with a piece of rogue spam calling her name, or my father watering the lawn with a garden hose that just had to be tamed. Whatever the reason, I knew that dogs had to be dogs, and little girls would wrangle whatever help they could from person or canine in their imaginative play. Cee-Cee would later wear a couch arm doiley, as did I. Together we were Sonny and Cher, me with the long hair, er….my couch arm doiley…and Cee-Cee as sonny with hers. She was lucky I never thought of using my brother’s fringed leather vest on her because I have a suspicion that I would have, had I thought of it! Though I love cats also, for their fluid, sometimes sublime and yet powerful love. but they have too much independence for my liking. A cat doesn’t run circles around themselves at the sound of your car turning into the driveway and leap pointlessly at the door until you breach it. After a short petting session cats say “enough is enough.. I’m outta here” and off they go to further generalizations about them, sitting on some window sill,

or some edge of a pillow on the middle of your bed. Basically any forgotten cozy place where they can lick and sleep and lick and sleep, and lick and sleep until they are frantically looked for, or they come bounding out of their crevace at the uneven drone of the sound of a can opener. I must point out that I do hold fondly memories of stroking my cat Mahalia’s sunset colored fur while she purred loudly in a weird clicking manner whilst painfully licking her sandpaper tongue across the bias of the back of my hand.

I just think of dogs as more ‘accessible’ bounding with energy, rough and tumble, forgiving. They trust in humans outta the box… they have no boundaries, no preconceived notions, and no qualms about walking around with Baby Tenderlove strapped to their back.

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