I have a dog.
Let me rephrase that: “I have a temporary dog.” I’m dog-sitting for a friend who’s planning to move from Colorado to Arizona. (I don’t ask why such things occur, I just hear and obey…like some dogs.) My friend is in the Grand Canyon State scouting locations. She’s steering clear of big cities and looking in the more rural areas between the Valley of the Sun (as the asphalt jungle known as Phoenix likes to be called) and the northern Arizona city of Flagstaff (which hates being called ‘Flag.’)
Now that you know the nicknames of Arizona towns, here’s the name of the dog: Elsie. She’s a corgi which is to say she’s cute and mellow and mischievous…a bit like my former girlfriend only a lot more dependable.
The last official dog I owned and cherished was our mutt, Mitzie, who grew up with me on the farm. I swore I’d never get another dog unless I had a farm or ranch for the critter to run wild on. Since leaving home to join the Army, I’ve lived in the following (in chronological order): barracks, Duplex, small city house, trailer, apartment, another trailer, another apartment, single room in someone else’s house, medium sized city house, condo, another apartment, another condo, and my present small two-story house in a tiny town.
No ranch. No farm. No acres. No dog.
Elsie is a typical canine in many ways. She sleeps and eats and gets excited when it’s time to walk or play ball. She spends quite a bit of time watching me with a curious and knowing look that makes me wonder what she’s thinking…which is her goal, apparently.
Now that she’s settled in after 5-days on the job at my house, she’s fallen into a predictable routine. So far as I know, she doesn’t keep a diary. But, if she did, she could record one day’s activities in a single entry. And then save her paws by photocopying that page and pasting it onto the next 20,000 pages.
Thus ends this tail of a dog’s life.