My Constant Companion

Emily has taught me the deep meaning of a word I've known for decades: dogging. I get up to get a glass of water: she follows hopefully. I go into my bedroom to change my clothes: she follows hopefully. I leave to pick up a kid at school: she follows me to the garage door. Hopefully. Wherever I am, there she is, or wants to be. When the kids were small we had an open-bathroom-door policy, the better to encourage potty training; Emily seems to feel that, despite her successful house-training, she should be able to follow me in and watch me pee. It's kind of nice to have this lovely devoted creature hanging around in the house (particularly because it's cold and she's warm). On the other hand, I wonder what she makes of what she sees. I go into the shower and come out wet--what's up with that? I go into my bedroom and put on clothes. Different clothes every day. That's weird; she never even takes off her collar. Weird. And all the time she's watching me with such hope. "She's putting on clothes. Perhaps she has a chew toy in that shirt!" "She's putting on shoes. Maybe that means it won't be cold and rainy, and we can go to the park!" "She's at the door to the room with the car in it. Maybe we're driving to the park!"

And of course, there's the total illogic of my behavior. Why can't she eat shoes? What's wrong with licking the kitchen table? If we don't want the used tissues, why isn't she allowed to pull them out of the wastebasket and eat them? And why is the food locked up in a closet, when we know she doesn't have opposable thumbs?

Sorry, dog. Life's full of mysteries.