To help limit Frankie’s movement, my husband and I have been taking Frankie to the bathroom in the unfenced front yard instead of making him go down several stairs to the back. The past two days have been pretty trouble-free: put on the leash, open the glass door, ease him down three steps, let him do his business and then shepherd him back inside.
Today, it went more like this:
- Take leash off hook.
- Make frantic attempt to contain Frankie, who, upon seeing leash, does bucking bronco routine around kitchen.
- Grab collar of other dog, since both dogs have now decided it’s time to play.
- Wrestle leash over Frankie’s nose and bear hug him to stop the prancing.
- Burst outside through glass door, opened just in time to prevent major incident.
- Take all three steps in one leap, while being dragged into front yard.
- Step in last night’s dog poop.
- Nearly fall while trying to remove poop from bottom of Ugg boot.
- Attempt to pick up last night’s poop with flimsy plastic bag while Frankie whips around and starts game of tug, using his own leash as the rope.
- Remove leash from Frankie’s mouth, only to have him take off across the yard to provide more poop to pick up.
- Take off Ugg boot and hop to front door to deposit Frankie inside.
- Hop back down to pick up this morning’s poop.
- Look through glass door to see Frankie, leash in mouth, making frenzied circuit around house.
Apparently, he’s back.
We’ll have to monitor his movement for a few more days to be sure, but he certainly seems to be back to his mischievous, maddening, exuberant self.
Thanks for your prayers and words of support. I’ve been amazed by how universal it is to love a dog. There’s definitely something about their loyalty, their optimism, their big, human eyes that strikes a chord deep within us all.
A little while later, when I had finally gotten things settled back down after Frankie’s manic spree, I walked back to the nursery and came upon this scene:
A few minutes later, it looked like this:
This is my life. And it’s a good one.