She sits curled on the bricks, in the sun, having just lived her first Sunday-morning kitchen experience.
She's sleepy now … her stomach full.
I managed to save the coffee cup, though coffee now dripped from the hallway walls. And it took a few minutes before I got my wind back.
Leftovers are a rite of passage for a Weaver dog. We don’t overdo it; we mainly offer them on Sundays. This morning it was leftover eggs.
She hasn’t grasped manners yet. Linus and Riley had 10 years to learn that one dog gets one bowl, the other dog the other, when it’s leftover time.
The new one’s approach is all bowls all the time. But she’s already learning. Linus is the good teacher, giving the youngster a deep, throaty growl when she ventures too close to his.
Meet Michka, aka “Bear.” By any measure, she’s a lucky dog. A shelter found her and her sister on the street, skinny as rails, their hair thin from mange, their intestines so full of nasties the shelter wondered if they’d survive.
Her sister is still recovering. Meanwhile, we’ve claimed this one as ours.
Let me describe her. We think she’s about four months old. Given her street life, that’s a guess. We’ve assigned June 17th as her birthday, though, so it becomes fact.
She is white with a dusting of tan. Already she stands as tall as Linus, with gangly legs and a tail that curls like a whip. Her paws are enormous but as gentle as butterflies when they land on your lap.
But it’s her face that amazes. It reminds me of the soulful look of a baby white seal – dark eyes, dark nose, with white all around. Pure innocence. That’s what caught our attention when we began checking web sites for pups. Those eyes …
A new pup can hardly fill the void of a senior dog lost. Riley is still missed. We find ourselves telling Riley stories now and then, though no longer with as many tears – usually with a quiet chuckle.
But a pup gives you fresh eyes to the wonders all around, because that’s how she sees the world: New, sparkling, mysterious, entertaining, exciting, scary … hardly the gray blandness that can overtake us all as we push through our daily duties.
Yesterday we took her hiking. And just as we finished up, she spotted a shell of a nut on the road. She sniffed it, pushed at it with her nose, sent it tumbling down the path with her in chase. And at last grabbed it to chew it.
Dogs, after all, have incredible senses, but their most acute are restricted to a few spots – the ears, the eyes, the nose and the mouth. What better way to get to know something than to grab it with your teeth and chew on it for a spell.
Heck, I learned about the wonders of jerky that way.
What fascinates me is her disposition. Our fear when we heard of her past was that the street had made her mean or fearful. Hardly. She seems the brave youngster, eager to explore, ready to please, deferential to the elder Linus when necessary, and a quick learner.
Quick about most things, I should say. She still has a habit of planting a puddle here and there. It’s gotten better, but there are those moments …
Like last night. I was in our bedroom, working on the laptop while watching the Rangers-Tigers game. We operate an on-line store for the Dallas-Fort Worth area, so I was doing some programming in preparation for the Rangers’ pennant win.
I jumped off the bed to return my half-filled coffee cup to the kitchen, stepped into the sun room, and made a sharp right to head down the hall.
Before I go on, know that I was in my bare feet, which are now quite sensitive to finding wet where there shouldn’t be wet.
But this time the wet didn’t register. There was no time. Michka had left a puddle on the slippery sun room tile, and my tight turn sent my feet flying and me crashing like a 100-year oak.
I’m sure the house shook … from my cursing if not from the fall itself.
In the meantime, Cindy scolded Michka. And when my eyes cleared, there she sat by the sun room door, her dark eyes wide, her tail down, looking at me, knowing she had screwed up.
It’s at such moments that your love is tested. I’m happy to say I passed. I bent over her, rubbed her ears, looked into those black eyes and said, “It’s okay, girl. It really is. But you really, really need to stop pissin’ in the sun room.”
Her tail wagged.
Michka is learning to bark. That’s a good thing, within reason. What’s a dog without a bark. The 101 Dalmatians would have been toast without friends that barked.
***
Michka is learning to bark. That’s a good thing, within reason. What’s a dog without a bark. The 101 Dalmatians would have been toast without friends that barked.
Here, Linus is the teacher. Michka witnessed Linus’s frenzy recently when the notorious White Cat, our neighborhood nemesis, nonchalantly walked by our front window, taking her time like she was on parade.
It’s the cat’s occasional “up-yours” moment, and Linus and Riley have always turned apoplectic during such visits.
So now Linus was barking and howling like the devil was at the door, and Michka at first just watched … then gave a small “woof,” then a more powerful “Woof.” But not yet a “WOOF!” It’s physically impossible. She’s not big enough yet.
But I think she will be. I’ve not mentioned it, but everyone seems to think that Michka is mainly a Great Pyrenees. If you don’t know the breed, they got their start in the Pyrenees Mountains in southern France and northern Spain.
They’re also known as the Pyrenean Mountain Dog. As the name suggests, they are large, sturdy beasts with high foreheads, round faces and long hair as white as mountain snow. And while their disposition is genial and affectionate, they are protective of flock or family when necessary.
So a gentle soul capable of righteous thunder.
It’s possible, then, that Michka could grow to 100 pounds and three feet tall, a fearsome, loyal guardian of the Weaver household.
The point?
Well, the message is really for White Cat.
Watch out, Cat. Because coming soon: White Dog. A big White Dog. Aka, "Bear."
Fueled by leftovers.
Fueled by leftovers.
