"Herself" watercolour on yupo paper 10 x 14 My life has been littered with animal encounters. My parents lived in fear of my losing an arm to a strange dog (apparently I leaned out from my baby carriage to pat every one we passed). When we went to the duck pond in the big park, I quacked for a week. Without success, I tried to coax every chipmunk to "Spread your tail, squirrel" and to have not only peacocks but peahens do the same.
My being disobeyed by an animal has remained pretty much the rule. Even the beloved Fudgie would quite regularly pee through the open windows of my doll house, although I cling to the notion that he meant it affectionately. After all, he let me dress him up in doll clothes and would lie on his back in my doll crib as long as my mother was not around; if she walked in, he would arise with as much dignity as he could muster and exit the tableau. And I was always the one he would run to when yet again he would have his hip broken by chasing a car so ineptly that it would hit him. This was in the days when dogs enjoyed complete urban freedom. Fudgie often took the role of "The White Stallion" in our cowboy scenario (one of many). It was the perfect part for him because the only requirement was that he run around out of control, albeit sometimes with a limp.
I adored him.
Things went much the same with Jewell. Jon taught her rules and I tacitly allowed her to break them. The only thing which saved us was her placid personality. While she eventually realized that she could do pretty much as she pleased, Jewell just enjoyed being part of a home-loving quiet household. It is with my dog-training deficits in mind that we have indefinitely postponed finding another dog. Waiting until there is one consistent adult home during the day seems smarter and I think I can wait until Jon retires. In the meantime, I make a fool of myself in the neighbourhood every evening, while Jon hopes against hope that I don't lose an arm....
My being disobeyed by an animal has remained pretty much the rule. Even the beloved Fudgie would quite regularly pee through the open windows of my doll house, although I cling to the notion that he meant it affectionately. After all, he let me dress him up in doll clothes and would lie on his back in my doll crib as long as my mother was not around; if she walked in, he would arise with as much dignity as he could muster and exit the tableau. And I was always the one he would run to when yet again he would have his hip broken by chasing a car so ineptly that it would hit him. This was in the days when dogs enjoyed complete urban freedom. Fudgie often took the role of "The White Stallion" in our cowboy scenario (one of many). It was the perfect part for him because the only requirement was that he run around out of control, albeit sometimes with a limp.
I adored him.
Things went much the same with Jewell. Jon taught her rules and I tacitly allowed her to break them. The only thing which saved us was her placid personality. While she eventually realized that she could do pretty much as she pleased, Jewell just enjoyed being part of a home-loving quiet household. It is with my dog-training deficits in mind that we have indefinitely postponed finding another dog. Waiting until there is one consistent adult home during the day seems smarter and I think I can wait until Jon retires. In the meantime, I make a fool of myself in the neighbourhood every evening, while Jon hopes against hope that I don't lose an arm....
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