Leaving the Kids
Buster never likes to see luggage, so when I came back from the shed with two suitcases, he started giving me That Look. It's the one that says I'm deserting him. He gets a similar look whenever The Lovely Linda is headed south to visit her youngest grandchildren, but somehow he knows that I'm staying behind. There must be something in the air of anticipation -- she for the little ones, I for my solitude -- that his canine sense intuits.
Of course, when he sees me haul out both bags, well, he's on top of the problem like slop on a hog. Buster is like most of us; he doesn't like change. He's happy with his routine of...wake up, wag tail, get a biscuit, walk to the highway for the newspaper...chow time, nap time, biscuit, biscuit, beg table scraps, biscuit, and sleep, with lots of rubbies in between. And sure, he'll get up every so often during the day to make his presence felt.
Would that he occasionally trotted that presence around the garden, though so far he hasn't disturbed any of the deer, who have been leaping fences to get at something green. It's been grotesquely dry this fall -- we're already 2-1/2 inches behind the normal rainfall for the season -- and I feel a little sympathetic to the animals coming down from the hills looking for food. Look elsewhere, I suggest, it's huntin' season.
Buster doesn't like it when I go to town, let alone outta town. He acts affronted, as though I don't know my post. At least he has the kitties -- Blue and Howard -- and actually they're semi-cats, which means that they are more than semi-independent. I would like to think that they, too, will miss us, but animals are funny about time. They come into my office every morning, from goodness knows where; no doubt somewhere different every night.
Howard meows from the doorway and comes over to be lifted onto my chest for his daily dose of rubbies. He likes the spot just above his tail, and around his neck. Blue doesn't announce himself verbally, but walks beneath my desk, just rubbing my leg. I edge forward on my seat, and he jumps up behind me. I reach behind me and rub his stomach and face. He purrs loud enough to be heard four counties away.
Buster perked up markedly when the cats first arrived last spring; he's kinda their uncle. They sleep on his pillows and Howard tries to capture his wagging tell. Buster indulges. I will miss them a lot, since few of the people at the conference we're attending in Galveston either wag or purr. I mean, they're good people, working hard to make ours a more collaborative than combative planet, but it's not the same.
I won't worry about the critters. Buster will be seen to by our caring neighbor, a practice that's been going on for ten years. The kitty-cats? They're not as sociable; in fact, she probably won't see them. But they'll do the feline thang, out and about, and will sashay up to us when we've been home again long enough to forget to miss them.
And that's SetonnoteS...I'm Tony Seton.
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